Moving Pictures Part Two The Sequel
by A.A. Pessimal
Summary: They're back! And they're annoyed! One of my first attempts at Fanfic, republished from the L-Space Web
1. The New Recruit

They Are Back. And This Time They're Going To Try And Get It Right!

Warning:-

Contains moderate swearing, some sexual content and allusions, including homosexuality. Attitudes may be expressed about gay characters which reflect the full spectrum of opinion expressed in 2000's Britain,or indeed Australia, and which are almost certainly paralleled anywhere where gay people exist. If you like your humour to be PC, this is **not** your sort of short story.

Spoilers to the plots of "Maskerade, "Moving Pictures", "The Last Continent" "The Fifth Elephant" and Thud!" As the story deals with Moving Pictures, it has been rated 15. (Patrician's Advisory Classification System).

**You have been advised.**

* * *

Author's Foreword

This piece of fanfic emerged out of private speculation concerning what one of my favourite Discworld characters, who has starred in only one book, chose to do next. I didn't want to lose him, so I rescued him from the end of Moving Pictures for this "sequel". Call it Moving Pictures II: They're back! Or similar movie cliché.

If anyone is offended or put out by my fleshing out the character of André, from Maskerade, I'm sorry but I can't help that. A friend of mine who is never, ever, wrong about these things gave me a flash of inspiration one day, and after turning her ideas over in my head, I realized she was very probably right. This is what I wrote on the relevant Pratchett and Discworld Wiki discussion page:

Not that it matters (well, not that it matters for the wrong reasons, I hope these are the right ones), but a woman I know, who is a bit of a "fag-hag" by her own admission, gave me back the copy of Maskerade that I'd loaned her and said "I'd bet you anything that André is gay.", and asked if it had ever occured to me on reading the book. It hadn't, but I know her gaydar is never wrong, and on re-reading it, there all manner of things that would make more sense if the character of André were homo rather than heterosexual. That he doesn't write off Agnes because she's a plain and unattractive woman, for instance, and that he actively appreciates being in her company; that he appreciates Christine's style and presence while being able to see further into her than a straight male could (ie, he isn't blinded by her looks), and that he is irresistibly drawn to the iredeemably high-camp world of musicals.

It would also add to the load of random casual cruelty that the world has chosen to dump on Agnes Nitt's head from a very great height, were she to become aware that the only man to take a deeper personal interest in her for some time, one who appreciates her for her intellect and Great Personality, turns out to be the sort of chap who on a night out might head for the Blue Cat Club rather than the Pink PussyCat Club... only to be expected, really, as Agnes also attracted a most unsuitable male in Carpe Jugulum.

As a policeman he'd be an odd-man-out, and therefore natural for undercover work, as in a very real sense he would have been acting an undercover role all his life…

This is just a thought, but reading André as a straight-acting gay does appear to make a lot of sense in the mad world of opera!!!--AgProv 13:07, 27 November 2007 (CET)  
_Talk:André_

So for her thoughts on André, this piece of fanfic has to be dedicated to Pamela J.A.

Enjoy, Pam!

The reader will also note that I fought a mighty inner battle to prevent a key scene between Angua von Überwald and Sally von Humpedink descending into a, hem, different, genre of fanfic. I don't think I'm ready to start writing that sort of slash fiction yet, and in any case I didn't want to give an impression that Sally or Angua are anything other than hetero. There isn't even a subtext justifying any other treatment, although I note Terry Pratchett himself nearly steered them into a naked mud-fight in Thud! (I suspect TP was making a point about the existence of slash fiction there, and having a sly dig at the sort of minds that create it). It is fair to assume that two close girlfriends might be touchy-feely in a strictly non-sexual sense, though, and Sally's sense of mischief might extend to very ostensibly "washing the dog" after she's been rolling in mud…

Where possible I have tried, for preference, to flesh out minor characters who are actually mentioned in the Pratchett canon, although some invention of new ones, such as the two female Troll officers in the Watch, is inevitable. The Blue Cat Club "exists" in Ankh-Morpork, as does its owner Mr Harris. In the canon, only as a footnote used to illustrate the broad-mindedness of Rosie Palm as head of the Seamstresses' Guild: she welcomes Mr Harris not only to Guild membership but also to its council, on the grounds that un-natural acts are only natural.

Pratchett has acknowledged in passing that homosexuality exists on the Disc, like any other phenomena or practice the human race has evolved, and that this is generally accepted. The two city hippopotami, Roderick and Keith, are said to have an arrangement of their own, for instance. And in Maskerade, Nanny Ogg and Granny Weatherwax have a moment of uncharacteristic doubt about the gender of a beautician who has just been working on Granny. Then there's Pepe in Unseen Academicals, who deals with his own (presumed) queer-basher in a very direct way. As the core value of the Discworld books is tolerance - so many of the books deal with the tragic or even horrific results of what happens when this value is lost - I hope have treated it in the same way.

I see this piece as setting the scene for a longer novel-length adventure involving the characters: I only have vague inklings as yet of where it will go, but Holy Wood may be involved. Look upon this as an extended prologue.

Finally, in keeping with Discworld, I have added footnotes and made sure there are ample potential annotations and sly references. Enjoy!

_AgProv (Paul Catlow) (A.A. Pessimal) June 2008._

* * *

Chapter 1: The New Recruit

Street fights were a nasty thing to get embroiled in. Generally the Watch preferred to do what it always did in these circumstances: lurk discreetly in a neighbouring alley, passing round a cigarette and discussing what they'd be doing on their next grandmother's funeral, until the sounds of fighting had diminished enough for them to move in and arrest the unconscious and unlucky. But just sometimes, there was no alternative than to get in there and apply a little of what Commander Vimes described as "preventative violence", in this case to stamp heavily on the incident before it ceased to be a mere pub brawl, and escalated to the status of city-wide riot.

The new recruit to the Watch sweated slightly in his ill-fitting tunic and chain mail and wondered whether he'd made a good career move. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the mass of the troll, roaring and bucking and trying to throw the ludicrously tiny figure of Pessimal off its back. He shuddered, then paid full attention to the Dwarf, screaming a battle-cry and racing at him, the double-bladed axe held poised for a menacing swing which would come in at roughly neck-height.

I'd better time this just right, he thought, I won't get a second chance.

He forced himself to stand absolutely still as the dwarf battle-charged him. Then, at the last possible instant, he swung to one side and extended a leg. Unable to stop, the dwarf piled into his extended limb, and flew helmet-over-boots across the cobbles in a crashing fall weighted with his own momentum.

"Dee-dah-dee-dah-dee-dohshitttttttt!!!!!"1 **(1)**

The new recruit had always believed that maintaining a physically fit body was a lot less effort than dragging round rolls of fat and flab. As he thought of himself as fundamentally lazy, this was entirely in keeping with his philosophy of life. Regaining his balance and assuring himself his dwarf was semi-conscious and groaning, he looked around himself. The troll had failed to dislodge Pessimal, who was now hefting his Watch sword and bringing it down, pommel-first, on the back of the troll's head.

Well, good luck, the new recruit thought. At best you'll irritate it a bit more, and make more work for Detritus and Dorfl when they get round to rescuing you.

Then Pessimal's sword pommel struck, just so. The Troll stopped struggling to dislodge the irritant on its back - in fact, it stopped dead. A look of puzzlement crossed its face for a moment, then with an avalanche noise, it slumped to its knees and then crashed face-first on the cobbles. Pessimal leapt off its back and shouted "How do you like them apples, huh?", in his shrill reedy voice.

"How did you…"

"There's a spot on the back of the neck. Not very well-known, but one of my friends at the Palace is a Dark Clerk. He showed me where to hit. Now shall we assist His Grace?"

"Yes, sergeant" said the New Recruit, and they ran to the sound of the cannon, or rather, the sound of Sergeant Detritus methodically punching his way through a group of lichen-encrusted New Trolls In Town. He was assisted by Constable Dorfl, who without any apparent effort had grabbed a troll in each huge hand and had banged their heads together, intoning "A Short Sharp Shock Is Sometimes Called For In These Circumstances".

To his consternation, the new Watchman saw a troll adopt the submissive posture as Pessimal passed by: trolls may not be the world's fastest thinkers, but a five-foot tall seven-stone human who can lay out a mountain troll is not, to the uncomplicated troll mind, a human to annoy. No, the problem was the small mobile dwarfs.

"You done good, A.E." Detritus rumbled, by way of encouragement. Pessimal acknowledged this with a wave, as he and the new watchman plunged into the melee where, he could now see, a group of Watchmen were being beset by three times their number of Dwarfs. He saw Commander Vimes punch one of his assailants into submission and kick another where Dwarfs find a kick to be most embarrassing, but what was he doing about the one behind him… he heard Sergeant Littlebottom shout Mr. Vimes! Watch out! And saw Vimes begin to turn, but the battleaxe was beginning to descend towards his back, propelled by dwarven battle-fury.

Absently pounding his clenched fist on the helmet of a dwarf running at him, the new recruit saw Vimes would not evade the blow in time. A moment of crystal-clear tranquility washed over him and the street-fight receded slightly. Old, long-forgotten, syllables came unbidden to his mouth:

Eryngea Floeara est! Ffiat flora!

There was an octarine glitter around the dwarf assailing Vimes. Time slowed slightly. The battleaxe in the dwarf's hands suffered a wobbly moment of existential confusion, blurred… and became a bunch of flowers. Vimes' expression hardened, and he looked directly at the new watchman with body language that said "you'd better have a good explanation for that", and then turned to his dwarf.

"Planning to ask me out, were you?" he said to a suddenly bashful dwarf holding nothing more deadly than a mixed bouquet. "You're nicked, chummy!".

And then it was over, with groaning trolls and semi-conscious dwarfs sprawling in the street , and Lance-Constable Swires headbutting a recumbent troll whilst intoning "I'm claiming ye, ye great lump of granite that y'are, ye thing ye!"

"No…please… get it off me! Please…I can't stand no more… " moaned the semi-conscious troll.

"Get this lot cleared up" Vimes said, curtly, to Detritus and Littlebottom. "Call the catch-wagons round from Chitterling Street, disarm 'em, load 'em on, book 'em, get 'em into the cells. Swires, I think you can stop that now!"

The gnome constable saluted his acknowledgement, and Detritus rumbled "It am like that ting, they do in Agatea, where they tie you up and drip water on you, one drop at a time on der head. That don't work on trolls apart from grow a stalactite on der head if it go on for long enough, but it drive humans Bursar, right? Dat gernome, he find a way to make der Agatean Water Torture work on trolls!" The huge troll shuddered.

Vimes nodded. "Mr. Pessimal, when you've finished beating up three-ton mountain trolls, I'd like you to get back to the Yard and start a report for Drumknott to put before His Lordship about tonight's little business? That is, after all, what I employ you for. And for the rest of you - well done. I want the message going out to the slow learners that this isn't going to be tolerated in an age of what the Diamond King has called gugalaaah - is that right, Detritus? And what the Low King Rhys is pleased to call kak'hulobh'at khreda'z. That pronounced right, Cheery? Damn it, there isn't a decent Morporkhian word for the concept, but Captain Carrot assures me the Überwaldeans call it glasnost and Lord Vetinari, if you ask him, will go on for some time about Quirmian being the language of international diplomacy and eventually tell you it's called déténte. Either way, it means the Dwarfs and the Trolls are looking for peace, and it's our job to stamp on the ones who think in the old ways. Got it?"2 **(2)**

Vimes looked around him for a moment or two, and his eyes fell on the new Watchman, who tried to look relaxed and nonchalant after his first real fight in Watch service.

"And _you_, mister, I'll see in my office first thing in the morning".

_____________________________________________----

All across the infinite Multiverse, there is a standard pattern to job interviews. The candidate, who is trying to look confident and not to sweat too much, is seated in an uncomfortable chair in front of a panel of between three and five interviewers, all of whom are smiling benignly whilst preparing to launch the killer question. While a handful of enlightened worlds have outlawed this practice under the "cruel and unusual punishment" clause, they still remain standard practice everywhere else.

That morning, several weeks prior to the streetfight, in a light and airy upper chamber at the Patrician's Palace, saw such an interrogation taking place. The candidate is a well-built young man in his early thirties, with an intelligent cast to his face, clean-shaven with just the hint of a moustache to his top lip, and with well-tended short black hair. His default expression is a slight smile, which suggests to onlookers that he is a lot more intelligent than he cares to reveal. (Actually, he's just covering up his nervousness). And, as Sergeant Angua von Überwald could not help but notice, he is a very good-looking man who appears to exude a quiet, confident, charisma. But it fell to her to ask the killer question:-

"So, why do you want this job?"

"The advertisement in the Ankh-Morpork Times appealed to me. It was the way it was phrased, really: The Ankh-Morpork City Watch is looking for a different kind of recruit. We need people with the aptitude to carry out special duties and who have the potential to be more than just policeman" That rather aroused my curiosity, really, as nothing more was said about the nature of the special duties, nor the qualities you're looking for in the applicant". (He very carefully omitted the part of the advert that talked about "_accelerated promotion is possible for the right person_").

The blonde sergeant smiled, which made her look less, for want of a better word, hungry.

"Well, that's a good start" she said. "But curiosity on its own isn't enough."

"I agree" he said, "which is why I went out to find out more about the job and the sort of person you're looking for. It's interesting that you only advertised in the Times, in the Ankh-Morpork Review of Books, in the Literary Gazette, all the more intellectual papers. If all you wanted was a street copper, the sort of street-smart type with a practical intelligence, but who nevertheless reads with his right fingertip, then that's the last place you'd put a recruitment advert. And you'd interview them at Pseudopolis Yard, not the Patrician's Palace. So you're looking for a potential copper with more… cerebral… skills. And the position is one the Palace is taking a direct interest in. That much is obvious."

The hard-bitten police commander sitting to her left said nothing, but nodded. The interviewee wondered where he'd picked up the jagged scar on his face that bisected one eye.

"You're doing well so far." said the blonde sergeant. "What else did you find out?"

"I took a look at the current table of organization for the City Watch. Or at least, the publicly available one. Now the Watch currently has a strength of one hundred and thirty-five officers of all ranks. It's subdivided into various divisions - street police divided among the section houses, the Training School, the River Police, the intelligence and admin section, Forensics, et c. Now here's the funny thing. Even allowing for current vacancies , I cannot make the numbers assigned to the various named departments add up to one hundred and thirty five. The named subdivisions only add up to one hundred and twenty-five officers. And this table of organization says there should be three officers of captain's rank, but only one is named. Allowing for a second captain's position being held in abeyance, there's a third police captain, or equivalent rank, to be accounted for here." He paused, and surveyed his five interviewers, allowing his gaze to rest on the red-haired captain with the friendly honest face that didn't deceive him for an instant.

"So this leads me to believe there is a police department which is not publicly listed, which is not publicly acknowledged, and whose existence is concealed from the public, perhaps for very good reasons, and this is the department you're recruiting for. "

Commander Vimes nodded again, and exchanged a look with the red-haired captain.

"And one reason why it doesn't have a captain," Vimes said "is that it's not nearly big enough for one yet. And we want to take our time appointing somebody, to be sure they're right for the job. You… that is, the successful applicant - will start at the bottom like any other copper and do your - his - their… time on the street as a lance-constable to get the hang of things before we transfer you - that is, the successful candidate - to this hypothetical department."

"I read up on the history of the City Watch. I think I can make an informed guess as to the nature of this special department and why it's so sensitive an issue. I'm being interviewed for my suitability for the Cable Street Particulars. Am I right?"

"Dead right". said Vimes, lighting a cigar. He took a long draw and exhaled happily. "You know, these things work up an incredibly high temperature at the red end. You'd be surprised." He handed the cigar to the candidate. "You win the cigar for damn good reasoning and good digging to get the right information. That's the biggest part of what I'm looking for - intelligent persons who can find things out, think clearly about things, and join the dots. Now we're going to go down to the cells and do an interrogation. Keep it hot, as a lighted cigar is an investigating officer's friend. You'd be amazed how many people confess after you've stubbed it out on them a few times."

"WHAT?" the candidate yelped, leaping up from his seat and dropping the cigar onto himself. "You're going to order me to… you mean torture is STILL part of the job? I thought that went out with Captain Swing!"

Vimes and his two officers exchanged looks and smiles.

"It looks as if we've got our man, Mr. Vimes" said the red-haired captain.

"I agree" said the blonde sergeant. "I can smell his horror at the idea of having to torture people for a living."

"I can also smell his burning trousers" said Vimes, passing him the water jug. "Put yourself out before you put a cigar burn in YOUR tender parts, mr… Tugelbend. Sorry I had to put you through that, but I had to be sure. Welcome to the Watch."

____________________________________--------

"Hmm, interesting" Lord Vetinari said, steepling his fingers. "Tugelbend. I've seen that face before. But I'm sure it didn't have that name at the time. That business with the moving pictures some years ago. I recall an actor of the name of…Victor Maraschino. Do we have a file, Drumknott?"

"I'm certain we have several, my lord"

"Provide them."

_______________________________________------

Vimes did not look up from the file on his desk for some time. Then he said "You may go, Sergeant Detritus". "Sir" said the troll, and knuckled out of the office. Victor heaved a sigh of relief. He'd had to do with Detritus before: the troll's first reaction on seeing him in Watch uniform had been "I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before. Holy Wood, where I met my Ruby. Dat's it. You was in der clicks then. So was I! Funny how life should have brought us both to der Watch. One of dem co-incidence t'ings."

Even so, Victor had those past memories of Detritus escorting him into the presence of Throat Dibbler - long ago, but just too near for comfort on that morning when Sergeant Detritus had loomed up and rumbled "Der Commander will see you now. I'm to escort you up."

Victor stood at unease as Vimes scrutinized him for some moments. Behind and to one side, the red-haired captain, who gave him a friendly wink.

"Let's look at the facts here, Probationary Lance-Constable Tugelbend. Last night we broke up a fight between some old-school dwarfs and trolls who've heard that there's a peace process going on between their races, but who are determined not to have anything to do with it. At one point in the evening, there was a dwarf coming up behind me who was set on putting some extra ventilation in my helmet. Only he discovered that all of a sudden he wasn't holding a battle-axe any more, but a bunch of flowers. Now we can suppose that this was an extremely forgetful, or perhaps confused, dwarf who ran out of the house having picked up a bunch of flowers and not a battleaxe. But this rather founders on eyewitness accounts that are unanimous that he was, in fact, in possession of a battleaxe up until the moment it spontaneously chose to become a bunch of flowers. And at that exact moment, Probationary Lance-Constable Tugelbend, you were seen to point a finger at him and spontaneously recite a couple of words which Sergeant Pessimal, who is a very well-read fellow, recognized as the Old Latatian for "let there be flowers".

I myself had at that moment a slightly tinny taste in my mouth, which Archchancellor Ridcully assures me is the dead giveaway for there having been a discharge of magic in the area. Co-incidence?"

"No, sir".

"Good, a honest answer. I'm pleased to hear that. Captain Carrot, I thought I asked you to do the background checks and find out exactly where Tugelbend here was educated?"

Carrot coughed, delicately. "No, sir. In point of fact, your _exact _words were "this is a clever, educated young bugger. I wouldn't put it past the Assassins' Guild to try to slip one of theirs through the net to get a spy in the Watch. You can make me a happy man by being able to assure me that Tugelbend was not educated at the Assassins' School". In accordance with your instructions, sir, I was able to reassure you Tugelbend has never attended the Assassins' Guild. You did not explicitly ask me to tell you that Victor Tugelbend was educated first at Hugglestones' Academy**(3)** 3, where in his own words he "learnt to handle a sword a bit", and then at Unseen University. Sir".

Vimes sighed, deeply and painfully.

"So you didn't tell me. Great. What have I always said about using magic in police procedures, Carrot?"

"That it's tricky stuff and it'll turn round and bite you if you're not careful, sir".

"And refresh me on my opinion concerning having a wizard in the Watch, Carrot?"

"Never in a million years, not till Hell freezes over, not if he came as a free gift, sir. Although in strict factual terms, Probationary Lance-Constable Tugelbend is not a wizard, as he never graduated from Unseen University. That's why I omitted to tell you Tugelbend was a student at Unseen, as I considered it would prejudice your opinion of an otherwise outstanding candidate. And according to reliable information, sir, the deepest and least hospitable part of Hell is in fact fro-"

"Never graduated. This gets better and better. OK, Tugelbend, explain why you were an undergraduate wizard for … ten, eleven years?... and never graduated. It normally takes three, doesn't it? In your own words. No hurry."

Victor explained his past - the legacy, the endless study to ensure he got no less than 80% in his final exams and no more than 87%, so as to preserve the income that supported the undemanding life of a student wizard, and the day when it all changed, when Moving Pictures came to town…

Vimes winced. "Ye gods, I remember. Some bloody clown from Howondaland came knocking on the city gates with a thousand elephants he claimed Throat Dibbler had ordered. When we got through all the bad jokes about Throat going into jumbo-sized portions, guess which group of long-suffering City employees had to clear the business up and get those lads packing back across the continent with their thousand elephants? Guesses? Anyone? And believe me, a thousand elephants on our city streets take a lot of clearing up, let me tell you! At least Nobby had the bright idea to sell it all to Harry King, so that was an unexpected bonus." Vimes toyed with an unlit cigar. "It beggared Throat, as Vetinari himself said it'd be a very good idea if he dug deep into his pocket, thanked those lads for their trouble, and paid their necessary expenses to take the whole damn lot back home again. So much for his profits in moving pictures!" 4**(4)**

"Yes, the Patrician was very specific about that." agreed Carrot. "I remember I got the order to find Mr Dibbler and escort him to the Palace with all due speed."

"But back to the matter in hand" said Vimes. "What it boils down to is that you are not a graduate wizard. But because of the amount of study you put in, so as to be able to carry on taking the piss and living off this legacy, you built up a knowledge of magic rivaling that of, ooh lets's take a random selection, the Dean, the Senior Wrangler, or even Archchancellor Ridcully himself. Am I right?"

"Broadly, yes". agreed Victor.

"And now you're working for me. And last night you used that knowledge of magic to save my life. Which makes it tricky as I know the Archchancellor has some _very_ firm ideas about who's entitled to use magic in his city. I.E., my lad, not _you_, as you are not a qualified graduate wizard. By your own admission you didn't turn up at all for your last final exam, and therefore washed right out of the University. You've never tried to re-enrol?"

"No, sir. No point, really. I lost the legacy the moment I washed out".

Vimes groaned. "Just for the record, you can call me MISTER Vimes, ok? You earned it last night."

He paused, and composed himself.

" Look, I'll be level with you. Mustrum Ridcully is favourably disposed towards the Watch, partly because my wife lays on the sort of big dinners he likes, and partly because he recognizes we've got a job to do that we do as well and fairly as we can and which makes life easier for everyone, or so he says. I've already broken my own rule about not using magic in Watch business, because a few months ago a situation cropped up where we had no alternative but to ask Mustrum for professional assistance. I asked for it and he provided it**(5)**5. So I can't easily throw you off the force because you used magic in Watch time last night. And if my wife discovered I'd sacked a copper for saving my life she'd give me hell, so your job's safe."

Vimes paused and took another deep drag of his cigar.

"But Mustrum Ridcully will _not_ like it if I employ an unlicenced wizard in Watch uniform chucking spells all over the place. So I'm going to have a word with him about you, do what he suggests, OK? It might mean you have to go back to college for a while and sit that gods-damned exam again, WITHOUT any piss-taking this time - and then - Gods help me - the Watch has its first and I hope only licenced wizard. Now get out on patrol, Lance-Constable. Oh, and if circumstances permit, warn me first if you intend to use magic. Clear? "

"Sir."

Tugelbend saluted, about-turned smartly, and left the office. The door closed behind him.

"Good call, sir" said Carrot, approvingly. Vimes glared.

"It's like the situation with the bloody vampire all over again." he said. "Funny how I run the Watch, but I keep getting over-ruled, outflanked and manouevred into employing people I swore I'd never let into Watch uniform in a million years".

"Politics, sir. His Lordship was hinting just the other week that you might want to think again about Watch policy on recruiting wizards."

"But that was only to get a dig back at us after poaching Pessimal from his staff. Ah well, at least it keeps Mustrum Ridcully on side. What was it he said… I know your opinion, Sam, and I respect it, even though some might say you're a bloody fool for it."

"And Tugelbend is very mentally stable, sir. If we take a wizard of our choice, we can carry on politely saying "no" to the Dean whenever he tries to join the Specials."

"That's true. Ah well, let's see how young Victor shapes up on the streets. He's still only a probationary".

"I believe he's already making a mark, sir. The lads seem to like him. However…"

__________________________________________-------

Lance-constable Tugelbend had not been in the Watch for very long when he recognized, uneasily, a pattern was emerging. By nature a shy man, he'd been somewhat disconcerted when the vampire had suddenly appeared at his side and greeted him with "Well, hel-lo! I see you're walking alone, or at least I hope you are!" Victor recalled a few vampire movies had been made at Holy Wood, and the standard plot came to his uneasy mind - Boy (vampire) meets Girl (human), but never for very long, as either the human party dies prematurely, or a combination of sunlight, religious imagery, and a sharpened stake, had done for the vampire party.

"Hey, it's alright, I don't bite!" the vampire had reassured him. "well, not very much, anyway. I'm Sally. You must be the new man? Cheery owes me a favour, I'll see if she can sort out the roster so we can go on patrol together. Night shift, obviously! There's so much I can show and give to you if you patrol with me tonight. Or any night!" 6**(6)**. Then she'd grinned, toothily, and said "About Watch business, naturally!", deliberately stroking his face and sashaying away across the room, taking care to blow him a kiss.

That had been his first introduction to Lance Constable von Humpeding, in front of a room full of Watchmen who were trying to conceal their sniggers, with varying degrees of success. Mysteriously, a sharpened stake, a hammer, and a page ripped out of an anatomy textbook, had appeared in his locker by the next day.

And then Ruby had turned up, ostensibly for a quick chat to her husband Detritus. Victor noted that the other male trolls in the Watch changed attitude and demeanour when she was around: talk was more muted, and everyone appeared to be showing the sort of guarded, careful, interest that human males might display if a truly beautiful woman walked in, but one who were known to be married to the biggest, hardest, fighter in town, of the sort who might fix you with a steady unblinking stare and intone "lookin' at my woman, were you?"

"Hello, boys" she boomed, looking at Constable Bauxite, who suddenly bloomed a deep, rose-quartz red about the chest and face. "Is Detritus about, or my boy Brick?" Bauxite burbled something incomprehensible along the lines of "nhgggh…".

Then she spotted Tugelbend, and boomed, delightedly, "VICTOR!" and physically picked him up in both massive hands. Victor winced: the standard troll method of acknowledging a friend she hadn't seen in years was a joyously robust punch to the head, and he fervently hoped she'd remember he was merely human and respond accordingly. Then again, a hug from a two-ton female troll could be just as destructive…

"Let me look at you! You is looking well, Victor! Detritus said you'd joined the Watch!"

Her head approached him at speed and Victor winced, screwing his eyes closed for the inevitable. Her polished troll lips brushed his forehead, and he found himself being gently set down again. Victor felt himself the centre of wryly jealous looks from a circle of male trolls. "Hey, we live among humans, we learn what's right for the humans we like!" she said.

This time the note in his locker was a crudely-drawn picture of a troll, with the back of the neck ringed, and an instruction to "hit here. If in doubt, ask Pessimal".

And then there was Precious Jolson. He'd been partnered to her for a routine learning patrol around the city centre, and they'd left the Yard to a muted cascade of wolf-whistles and sniggers that had left her bright red from the neck up. She walked, he noticed, with that slightly hunched-over quality all truly big people seem to have, as if her body language was one of apology for taking up so much valuable space. Old Sergeant Colon had quietly said to him to "treat her right, lad. When she's confident you'll never have a better guarding your back". Fred should know, he thought, as Precious was one of his first-choice partners when Nobby Nobbs was unavailable 7**(7)**. Fred had described her as "quite chatty when she gets to know you", so Victor was surprised to find her conversation appeared to consist of occasional monosyllables. Otherwise, Precious towered a clear eight inches over him, she was at least half as wide again in the shoulders, and like many girls fated to have larger figures, she'd been given a head of good hair and attractively chiseled features. "All she needs now is a boyfriend of about six foot ten", Victor thought, reflectively, as he sought for a question that could not just be answered with a "yes" or a "no". "But there aren't many of those about. Most men feel happier if they don't have a girlfriend who can look down and tell you if a bald patch is starting. Or one who isn't physically capable of throwing you through a wall."

"I hear your father works in catering, Precious?"

The red tide beached somewhere around her cheekbones.

"Yes." There was a brief painful pause, and then a rush of words:-

"He'sAllJolsonofAllJolson'sAllYouCanEatandifyoulikewecouldhavedinnerorsupperorbreakfastthere…"

Oh dear, thought Victor, recognizing the symptoms. Still, he now knew why Fred liked partnering her on patrol. To change the subject, he gleaned that she'd first started helping out in the family business around age six, where, in an environment where time costs money, her ability to help deliverymen unload fifty-pound flour sacks quickly had been considered a useful asset. She could physically lift a cooking range to allow for the kitchen porter to sweep and mop underneath it; at age fifteen she'd joined the Ankh-Morpork Athletics Club to allow her physical strength an outlet. One day, the male members had humoured her by allowing her to have a go at throwing that hammer thing. She'd got into the little chalk circle, crouched, and spun, built up a speed , as she'd seen the men do, then let go of the handle, and watched as it came to rest far further away than any of the men had been able to throw it….

Victor, recognizing the sort of misfit designed by Nature to end up in an institution like the Watch, nodded sympathetically, especially about her hobby of breeding cage-birds. "There are some lovely new species coming over from XXXX!" and a dissertation on the various colours and habits and gregariousness of the budgerigar - apparently a Fourecksian native word for "_picks up swear words very, very, quickly_". 8**(8)**

He wasn't surprised to find a stepladder propped up against his locker this time.

_____________________________________-------

Lady Sybil's charity matinée for the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons was proceeding as well as these things generally do. Various luminaries of the City were milling around the Ramkin House, drawn for the usual sorts of reasons. People of a certain social standing always attend each other's social functions. It gives them something to do, they can be seen as philanthropists who give generously to good causes, and they can catch up on the latest society scandals. They can also be iconographed for the _**Times**_ and for its latest magazine offshoot, _**Hi!**_, proving to the hoi-polloi who buy the wretched thing that they are discerning people of wealth and substance and influence. Hence, thought Vimes sourly, that bloody vampire Chriek posing people for _**"Seen at the Charity Fund-Raiser hosted by the Duke and Duchess of Ankh at Ramkin Manor".**_

Vimes had given strict instructions to Willikins and a couple of reliable footmen to keep a close eye on Lord Downey, and tell me if he looks as if he's sizing the place up for entry and exit routes. Oh, and watch Boggis around any small portable items of high value, as old habits die hard.

"Indeed, sir" the old butler had said, gravely. "I have taken the liberty of watching His Lordship closely, and he seems to be covertly paying attention to the access routes to the undercroft. If you recall, the entry method favoured by those dwarfen gentlemen who made the last assassination attempt. Shall I weaken a few tunnel supports so that they collapse on an intruder at the merest touch?"

"Thank you, Willikins" Vimes said, gratefully. "You consider the small details admirably, as always".

"Perhaps a plank or two studded with rusty nails in the appropriate places, sir?".

"As you see fit, Willikins. If you could see the Dean and the Senior Wrangler get another cart-load of vol-au-vonts and cocktail fancies? We seem to be running out"

"Right away, sir. While the rest of the university party are distracted by the buffet table, I have arranged for the Archchancellor to speak to you, discreetly, down by the ornamental lake."

On the pretext of "Must circulate to the outside marquee, dear, got to show the flag", Vimes escaped to the garden. After a fervent handshake with Harry King that left his right arm feeling numb, he discreetly made his way round the side of the house to the lake. He liked Harry King - for one thing, he was always grateful to be invited to nobby do's like this, unlike some of the supercilious buggers. It also disconcerted the likes of Lady Selachii, which was no bad thing, and he knew Sybil didn't make any distinction between Lady Selachii and Mrs King, she was as natural to one as she was to the other, and Harry loved her for it. Harry King's usual return for Sybil's open-heartedness was to ensure his boys co-operated with the Watch, and where possible told them things: to Vimes, a society invitation extended to the Kings was worth an army of a thousand occasional informers, without whom the Watch would be that much deafer and blinder. Must make sure young Tugelbend gets to know these things, he thought, as he tried to flap some life back into his frozen limb.

"Ah, there y'are, Sam!" came the unmistakeable booming voice of Mustrum Ridcully. "What's this delicate matter y'wanted my advice on, hey?"

Vimes winced. He turned to see Ridcully, perched on the wall of the ornamental lake, cheerfully feeding bread rolls to the hippopotami. "I see not everything found its way back to the College of Heralds after the fire, then".

Roderick reared up on both hind legs and caught the bready missile with an appreciative unnnngh noise. Vimes grinned.

"Well, Roderick and Keith really settled in here and didn't want to go back. So we have this arrangement. If they're needed officially, one of the heralds comes over here with his drawing kit. Seems to work."

"And I _did_ hear about that student assassin who thought the best place to wait was in the lake with a breathing tube, so all he needed to do was pop up when you passed by, and take a shot." said Ridcully. "Bad move. I hear these chaps are terrifically territorial."

"If three tons of hippo don't want you in their lake…" said Vimes, with a slight smile.

"Right. Bugger off, you fellas, that's your lot." Ridcully made a dismissive gesture, and the hippos ambled off towards their mud wallow. The wizard and the watchman reflectively watched them go.

"Puts me in mind of the Dean and Wrangler." Ridcully mused. "Only friendlier. Right, Sam. How can magic not help the Watch this time, in this conversation we aren't having?"

"It's like this." Vimes began and explained the situation. "And as it crosses your area of jurisdiction, so to speak, you need to know, if only as a courtesy."

"Tugelbend, Tugelbend". muttered the Archchancellor. "The very first damn' problem I had to deal with. " Then he threw back his head and roared "BUR - SARRRRR!!!"

Vimes nearly choked on his cigar when the slight figure of Dr Dinwiddie, clutching a paper plate of buffet food, hovered into view. From approximately thirty feet up.

"Archchancellor?"

"Student wizard, name of Tugelbend. Refresh my memory."

"Tugelbend, Victor. He unaccountably failed his final exams eight times, but on six occasions by the very narrowest of margins. On the fourth attempt, he actually passed, but appealed against passing, quoting an examiner's error. On the final occasion he quite simply didn't turn up, which neatly solved the problem as it gave the university the opportunity to simply expel him. We learnt afterwards, Archchancellor, that it was all due to an over-indulgent bequest from a relative that set up a trust fund, enabling Tugelbend to live in some comfort while a student. So he took very good care to remain a student."

"Hmmmph. So he stayed a student wizard for nearly eleven years, by my count. But to keep consistently scorin' no less than eighty and no more than eighty-seven, he must have had to put in some damn' good studyin'. For eleven years."

Ridcully paused. "Well, there's our problem, Sam. Nobody studies wizardry that intensively for that long without soaking so much of it up that it starts to leak. Can't help noticin', though, that by yr'own account, when it leaked it saved your life! _Eryngeas' Surprisin' Bouquet_. Good application of spellcraft there, that man."

"Perhaps, Archchancellor, we could rectify the situation? After all, Tugelbend was of some considerable assistance when the Moving Pictures business went nasty. That could go a long way towards awarding him a degree?" The Bursar had spiraled down to earth now.

Vimes remembered. It had been in the bad old days of the four-man Night Watch: he'd taken one look, conferred with Carrot, Colon and Nobby, and made the command decision that fifty-foot tentacled inter-dimensional monsters roaming the streets were outside their jurisdiction and should be left to the relevant professionals. Seeing the wizards were already on the case, the Watch had gratefully regrouped to investigate those reports of a herd of a thousand elephants that was approaching the city, and to locate one C.M.O.T. Dibbler, with whom the Patrician had already signaled an intention to have a quiet meaningful chat.

"Hmmm… performing a service of benefit to wizardry and by extension to all mankind" mused Ridcully. "I mean, fair's fair. That's how Rincewind scraped through, and the man doesn't have a magical bone in his body. Here, we're talking about a young fella of considerable magical talent, who was unlucky seven times in his Finals, and, well, the stress of the exam room must have got to him on the eighth. One of those fellows who doesn't perform well in exam rooms, but shows genius in the practical. And then Sam can have his first qualified and licenced wizard in the Watch, as we've been askin' for many years, and everybody's happy! Oh, and Bursar… somebody behind you."

The Bursar turned and looked into a gaping mouth the size of a small toolshed, lined with huge yellow teeth. A tongue the size of an armchair flicked out, and delicately took the entire buffet plate out of the Bursar's hand.

"Oh my… hello Mr Wuggle… millennium, hand and shrimp"

The Bursar fell back into Vimes' arms, stiff as a plank.

"Naughty boy, Keith!" Ridcully admonished. "Right hand front robe pocket, Sam. It's a green bottle, labelled "Dried Frog Pills".

_______________________________________-------

"Morning Prayers"**(9)** is that moment in a Watchman's day when he or she is briefed by the Duty Officer on what the day holds 9. If they don't belong to an established team, or if they're new, this is where they're assigned a partner and a beat for the day. Whether the Watchman gets an easy beat or not is in the gift of the Duty Officer, and the thirty or so officers gathered in the briefing room at the Yard were expectantly silent as Sergeant Cheery Littlebottom climbed up to the podium to address them.

Tugelbend listened with half an ear, and reflected on the last few years. The night of the Things was still a memory that could crawl out of the black pit of sleep to trouble his dreams. Worst, the Patrician had invited Ginger and himself to a little chat early the next day, the gist of which had been an appreciation that you were, ah, inadvertently involved in what might have been the total destruction of this city. Clearly no blame attaches to either of you, as you were the unwitting tools of powerful occult forces as well as the earthly greed of others - that reminds me, Drumknott, has Mr Dibbler been located yet? And Archchancellor Ridcully has praised the part you played in getting the situation back under control again, which is quite laudable. But as you are now two of the most recognizable faces in this city, and as it was the degree of public belief in your screen personae that precipitated this event, I consider it would be beneficial to all concerned if the two of you, of your own free will, chose to leave the city and seek your fortunes elsewhere. Did Mr Dibbler pay you? Ah, how remiss of him. Drumknott, how much money has so far been recovered from the ruins of the Odium? Capital. I'm sure we can spare a couple of hundred dollars each to speed this young couple's departure from our city. Put them on the coach for… Genua, I think, and charge the tickets to mr Dibbler. Exile? Whatever makes you think I'm exiling you? Oh dear, no, you misunderstand me. You are free to return when everyone here has forgotten your faces, and now - don't let me detain you.

"Lance-constable Tugelbend - at her request, you're partnered with Sergeant von Überwald." This led to the inevitable sniggers, low calls of "Woof - WOOF!" and a poor imitation of a wolf howling. Victor sighed with resignation, wondering what was going to end up in his locker this time. The dwarf sergeant pounded on his - her - desk-top and shouted for quiet. "You'll be on a general orientation patrol at the Sergeant's discretion and act as mobile back-up to any beats requiring assistance." The dwarf looked up, paused, and then sprang to attention and threw up a salute.

"Watch Commander in the room! Stand up! Atten - SHUN!"

"Thank you, Sergeant Littlebottom" said Vimes, moving to the front. "At ease. Just pretend I'm not here. Tugelbend - catch!"

Victor caught the rolled scroll, noting it was wrapped in red ribbon. He cautiously unrolled it and saw, to his consternation, it was a graduation diploma from Unseen University. Signed by the Archchancellor and conferring the degrees of B.F. and on Victor Tugelbend. A smaller, less ornate, scroll tucked inside confirmed his right to practice magic within and without the city of Ankh-Morpork, under the auspices of the U.U.

"They'll be formally conferred on you at the next Convivium, and apparently Ridcully says he can sort you out a half-decent staff from University stock. Don't say I don't do things for my Watchmen. They're yours, you earned them, take them, and Gods I hope this is the right thing to do". 10**(10)**

Well, thought Victor, this kills all hope of getting the legacy re-instated and going back to a nice quiet student life…

"And…" Vimes added, with a nasty little smile, "you are now Watch liaison officer with the University. Can't think of a better duty for the first wizard in the Watch!"

______________________________________---------

"So you nearly destroyed the City and dragged it into the Dungeon Dimensions - but you didn't mean to?" Angua said, suppressing a smile. "You naughty thing. Of course, this business with the Moving Pictures was just before I arrived in this city, so all I know is what people have told me. Did mr Vimes tell you about the elephants? I thought, knowing him then, that any elephants he saw would be pink and insubstantial ones, but apparently a thousand of them, real ones, got into the city. Nobby and Fred were so keen to go and find Throat Dibbler to tell him his elephants had arrived, cash on delivery, that of course they left the gate open. An accident waiting to happen, really."

Victor was more at his ease with the blonde sergeant, whose voice still had a slight, but pleasant, trace of Überwald. Her hungry look still disconcerted him, though: if anything he was relieved to find out that she and Captain Carrot were an acknowledged couple, which took one possible complication out of patrolling with her. In a funny sort of way, she reminded him of Ginger: a painful memory jabbed at him, and he wondered what she was doing now, after they'd split up on Fourecks.

"The Alchemists' Guild usually just manages to blow its own premises up. Which is disconcerting for everyone, except the Gamblers' Guild just opposite." Angua said. Noting his slightly puzzled look, she added, helpfully, " 'Doc' Pseudopolis won the last sweepstake on when and what time of day it would blow up. All members put into the pot and the longer it goes between explosions, the bigger the win. So the Alchemists went one better and very nearly destroyed the whole city. And you were a part of that!"

She laughed, delightedly "And Vetinari exiled you from the city".

"At least until people forgot."

"Which you'll find is the case in this city. A year or two ago, Music With Rocks In was the big thing. It took over. This rather sweet young man from Llamedos who played some sort of guitar couldn't go anywhere without hordes of fans trying to tear his clothes off. And now it's all forgotten. Apparently he's working in a fish shop in Quirm now, and his horn player guts rats at Gimlet's delicatessen. So I doubt if any of the people who went wobbly over your clicks are ever going to remember you now."

They were on the outskirts of the City, upriver and downwind. A high fence loomed up, and the noise of activity could be heard from the other side. Periodically, something large and heavy slammed into the fence, making it shake.

"Just got to call in here. Watch business" she said.

Victor noted the sign over the door; _**Harry King. Taking the piss since 1969**_ had been indifferently painted over and replaced with _**Harry King. Extracting nature's bounty since 1969. **_But the original letters were still fairly visible underneath…

Angua confidently opened the gate and stepped inside. Victor followed, closing the gate behind him, then his bladder turned to ice. Six or seven silent loping shapes were converging on the two Watchmen. As they drew nearer, a low visceral growl erupted. Victor measured the distance back to the gate. He realized, with a sinking stomach, that he wouldn't be able to get there before the Lipwigzer dogs did. And they wouldn't _just_ take the piss, they'd also have the bladder that was temporarily containing it. If it didn't make an escape bid of its own first…. But Angua didn't seem concerned at all? Victor felt the magic welling up. _**Tonsilflingers' Temporary Transition**_? This would cause seven pounds of earth to fountain up from the packed ground in front of each dog, and temporarily convert to seven raw steaks, to distract them… OK, they'd turn back to earth again, but by then he'd be long gone and the dogs would have appalling constipation…

"It's OK" said Angua, reassuringly. Then something funny happened to the dogs. The ones that had got too close to Angua started to cringe and back off. One that was halfway to a leap tried to convert the spring in its back legs into a hasty retreat. Another decided to investigate the area underneath its own tail and started industriously licking. The biggest and hardest Lipzwiger tried to brave it out and carried on growling at Angua, although less confidently than before. Then she growled back, ending the growl with as "Hmmm?" To Victor's consternation, the huge guard dog crumpled into a submissive whimper. Angua nodded and walked on without a backward glance. Victor followed, although a couple of the dogs were recovering from whatever it was and were paying him beady-eyed attention.

How in the seven Hells did she manage that? Victor gibbered to himself, following her into the office.

Harry King himself, all cigar and bonhomie, was walking tall among his desk clerks. He smiled, welcomingly.

"Morning, sergeant! Professional call?"

"Yes, but yours rather than mine. Mr Vimes asked me to drop by to settle the Watch account with you."

"Take the lady's money, Jenkins. City Watch account." And, less curtly "It's either you, miss, or the golem, or one of the trolls. Daft buggers couldn't hurt a troll, but it doesn't stop 'em tryin'. Your boy's white as a sheet, by the way. First time out?"

"First time he's met your dogs, Mr King. Funny, I've never had a _second_ of trouble with them!"

"No, I should imagine _you_ haven't."

He dropped his voice.

" Word on the street is that the Bandits' Guild have had a falling-out. There's a faction who are planning a go at the mail coach when it does the bullion run to Borogravia. They're intending to let it get twenty miles outside the city, then they'll turn it over. Look for Stone Killer Marfleet in the Shades, word is, he's getting the gang together. Thank Lady Sybil for me for the kind invitation the other day, miss? Mrs King was well made up!"

"And that's how it works" Angua explained later. "The Watch makes friends and they tell us things. We can't do our job without information, and people give us information for lots of reasons. When you get into it, eighty percent of your job is going to be sitting at a desk processing, evaluating and analyzing information. You'll be in the warm, near a kettle, solving problems, while we are out in all weathers."

_Which suits me fine_, Tugelbend told himself. _Once I'd worked that out, this looked like the ideal job for me!_

"And here's one for you to solve. Worked out who the werewolf in the Watch is yet?" She gave him a poker look, edged with just a little mischief.

"Well", began Tugelbend, "everyone thinks it's Nobby Nobbs. Or they claim he is, and they tell me he is, which is a different story. I doubt that. If Nobby was a were-anything…. Well, did you ever meet an extraordinary dog called Gaspode? Nobby would be hard-put to manage a Gaspode, let alone a wolf."

Angua laughed, a low pleasant sound.

"We've got another mutual friend, then. Gaspode's still around town, ducking and diving and living on his wits. So if not Nobby, then who?"

She gave him a smile and a look through narrowed, amused eyes.

Well, you wear your Watch badge on a choker collar around your neck. You subdued seven of the most vicious dogs on the Disc just by standing there and growling at them. But on the other hand, this is another test, right? They keep the identity of the Watch werewolf an operational secret. She's checking out how well I can keep confidences.

"Miss, my inquiries are proceeding and as yet I have not conclusively identified the werewolf, but when I know the identity of the Watchwoman in question, I'll be sure you're the first to know I've found out!"

Angua laughed, delightedly.

"Good answer, Victor, good answer. Now indulge me. Vetinari threw you both out of the city and you spent a few years in exile. Where did you go to and what have you been doing?"

* * *

**(1)**Refer to Guards! Guards! where it is revealed that the alternating high-and-low-pitched war yodel is a Dwarfen speciality.

**(2)**Vimes is referring to events covered in more detail in Thud!

**(3)**OK, so Moving Pictures doesn't explicitly tell us where Victor went to school. But he has clearly received a good general education, "can handle a sword a bit" (swordsmanship is a Hugglestones' speciality) and by inference comes from a middling-well-off family who can afford the fees. Why not Hugglestones?

**(4)**CLICK, CLICK, CLICK… This is a loose end from Moving Pictures : 1,000 elephants waiting expectantly at the gates of Ankh, while Colon and Nobbs argue about who gets to tell Dibbler. As a thousand elephants cannot be ignored, this is the sort of loose end that begs to be tidied up… so I did.

**(5) **In Thud!, Vimes is forced to ask for magical assistance so as to get to Koom Valley and prevent a war.

**(6) **Sally, by some mysterious resonance across the Multiverse, is quoting a song by Roundworld goth-rockers the Blue Öyster Cult, in which a lonely lady vampire makes it clear she'd quite like a boyfriend who shares her interests.

**(7) **Precious Jolson is Colon's occasional street partner in **_Thud!,_** where we are told that girl's got the muscles of a troll on her, and that's a fact. I've filled in some of the gaps about her with likely detail. The physical description is based on memories of Eastern Bloc discus-throwers and shot-putters at Olympics past, who combined bodies to make Charles Atlas weep with stunningly pretty faces.

**(8) **We asked Professor Bruce Brucesson, Professor of Linguistics at Bugarup University, to verify this. "G'day, sport. The name of your common budgie is in fact an abo word, derived from the phrase 'bugger - eager', or "keen to use words your granny doesn't approve of". Well, that's your bluenosed pommie grannie, that is, mine used to cuss like a bushman with his donger caught in the kedgeree. He's a clever little bastard, your budgie, who'll quite happily learn to swear like a drop-bear that's just landed arse-first onto a wizzard's pointy hat" And so on and so forth. On Roundworld, Geoff Capes was a twenty-stone man-mountain who putted shotts for Great Britain, went on to contend in The World's Strongest Man, looked like Banjo Lilywhite's bigger and more evil brother… and bred budgies as a hobby.

**(9) **It's well-named, as at the start of a shift that promises to be gruelling, there isn't a Watchman who hasn't thought something along the lines of **_Oh Gods, help me get through today in one piece._**

**(10)**This echoes Granny Weatherwax in Equal Rites when she gives the staff to Esk.


	2. The Cable Street Particulars

**_Chapter 2: The Cable Street Particulars_**

Victor hadn't known what to expect of the Cable Street Watch House, having read something of its history. He hadn't, however, considered light, airy, offices painted in a clean aseptic white, with large new windows designed to admit the maximum amount of sunlight.

"Surprised?" Commander Vimes asked him. "When Vetinari gave permission to go ahead and re-open Cable Street, I wanted a complete rebuild. I paid for a complete redesign. I've seen what it used to be like in here (_he grimaced_) and you can be sure the place was gutted and rebuilt as fit for human beings. Here's how it works: the two upper floors are Cable Street Particulars only, access restricted. Downstairs is a normal functioning Watch House staffed by uniform, including canteen, changing and recreation facilities which will be shared by uniform and CSP. And yes, there are still cells in the cellars as I imagine this Watch House will see its share of candidates to fill them. But you may be sure a lot of what you might call the optional extras, that previous administrations thought were necessary, have been thrown out. The cells are now Watch standard, we give 'em the usual three B's, bed, blanket, and bucket. Having said that, though, when Captain Carrot came up with the idea of starting a Watch museum over at the lemonade factory, I gave him permission to rebuild an interrogation cell from here, as it would have looked in the old days, using some of the…things… we salvaged from down here. And that's what I want those old days to be, Tugelbend, just a museum piece. André, glad you're here, this is your new man. Lance-Constable Tugelbend, this is Inspector André Loudweather. You can take over now? Vetinari wants me down the palace".

Victor shook hands with the head of the CSP, a dapper fair-haired man with the hint of a moustache, in his late twenties, in neat civilian clothes. Vimes left them for his Palace appointment, and Victor asked: "I'd have thought you'd have been another Captain?"

"Commander Vimes thought that would be a problem. You know how the order of seniority works in the Watch? Commander Vimes on the top, then Captain Carrot, then, leaving me out for the moment, Sergeant Angua would be third in line. Then Sergeant Detritus as senior troll, and Sergeant Littlebottom as senior Dwarf." He paused, and added, doubtfully, " I suppose Fred Colon comes next, as most senior human. Anyway, Commander Vimes wanted the most senior rank in the Particulars to be lower than a Captain, so that his position in the hierarchy was completely clear. It prevents another Findthee Swing coming along and behaving like a law unto himself if he has to report back to a senior captain every so often. If you have two captains, it muddies the chain of command. Captain Carrot, who's done a lot of the history of the Watch, said that in the old days there used to be a police rank lower than Captain and higher than Sergeant, and suggested it was resurrected for me, so here I am, Inspector Loudweather. Technically third in line after Vimes and Carrot, but believe me I'm _happy _for Angua to take charge of Uniform if there's a need. This is the canteen, by the way. We share it with Uniform on the ground floor. Mrs Motley sorts out some good plain food and makes the tea. Changing rooms over there."

André led him up the stairs to the offices of the CSP. "Did I tell you I'm technically only part time? I work for the Opera House three days a week. It would be more and I hope it soon will be, but Mr Vimes asked me to stay on until he can train and appoint a successor. I don't think I'm wrong, but you look as if you've got something going for you?"

"The advert did mention "accelerated promotion" Victor admitted.

"That's good, because with the best will in the world, I don't think anyone on the current team is quite cut out to be promoted. Virtually all of them are Specials, for one thing."

"Specials?" queried Victor.

"Part-time policemen. In this case, people with special qualities who put in the time as and when and get paid pro-rata. Our file clerk is full-time, but she's technically a civilian assistant." Victor thought he saw a look of pain pass across André's face. "And while Sergeant Pessimal is notionally full-time and on our payroll, obviously a lot of his time is spent at the Yard making sense of Mr Vimes' and Captain Carrot's paperwork." They arrived at the sort of door that clearly advertises that if it doesn't want to be opened, it stays closed, thank you very much. The large "Access Strictly Restricted" sign was a courtesy detail.

"Ooo's there?" squeaked the door.

"Unlock. Loudweather."

"Door unlocked, guv'nor" squeaked the lock. Victor, recognizing simple technomancy, was interested.

"From the University thaumatological park" André explained. "Was that there in your day? Mr Vimes said you were a student at Unseen. We'll have to get you set up as a door user. Voice recognition technomancy, apparently".

They entered a large, airy, open-plan office, similar to the one downstairs. One end of the office was effectively barred off by a large counter. Behind was a library-like archive of bookshelves and stacked files. And behind the counter was a bulky middle-aged woman with a permanent disapproving scowl, and her dark hair coiled up round her ears into what Überwaldeans called schnecken, or snails.

Ah, thought Tugelbend, the Doorway Demon who has to be appeased in order to access the files.

"Miss Fluorine Maccalariat, our administrative officer and file clerk." André said. "Of the famous Maccalariats and the black sheep of the family, the one who doesn't want to work at the Post Office, ha ha."

"Indeed, André" she said, looking disapprovingly down her nose at Victor. "And I suppose this is yet another young man who's going to make an appalling mess of my files and make my job needlessly harder by replacing everything in the wrong order?"

"I believe I met your sister. At the Post Office, when I went to post a letter?" said Victor, trying to break the ice.

"Young Man! You did NOT meet my sister at the Post Office!" thundered the affronted file clerk. "While I have sisters, who work elsewhere, you would in fact have met my MOTHER, Miss Iodine Maccalariat!"

"All Maccalariats are "miss". " André whispered, quickly. "Even the married ones. The husbands take their name."

_There are actually husbands_? thought Victor. _And… Children?_

André steered him on.

_And… More than one child?_

"This is one of our part-time Specials, Lance-Constable Turvy. His knowledge of economics is invaluable in detecting financial fraud".

A thin, manic-looking bespectacled redhead. "Commander Vimes excused him street training and put him straight on duty here" said André. "If time allows, he can show you the Glooper later. It's really quite a fine balanced machine: we monitor it for unexpected and dubious money transfers around the city." And, quickly: "You can explain how it works and what to look for later, Hubert".

"And this is Lance-Constable The Right Honourable Bertram Stocks-Constable. Constable Constable for short. His desk covers art theft, fakes and fraud. He works at the Art Gallery most of the week, but Sir Reynold is kind enough to loan him when we need him".

A wide plump face looked up at him with an eye swimming languid blue behind a monocle. The head belonged to a body that made Fred Colon look anorexic by comparison.

"Delighted, old boy!"

"And these are Lance-Constables Gooseberry One and Two".

Two whirling green clouds coalesced into sprites with a vaguely neurotic eager-to-please expression. They saluted, and chorused "Pleased to meet you, Insert-Name-Here!"

"The Gooseberries handle data processing, number-crunching, and so on. And this is Lance-Constable Speaker."

She was around thirty, Victor noted, dressed extremely plainly and severely, her dark hair tortured into a very tight and business-like bun. She looked up from whatever she was writing, spared Victor a smile - at least, the corners of her mouth moved upwards and her teeth were visible - then handed André a bundle of neatly stapled papers.

"This is the analysis Commander Vimes requested" she said, briskly. "I've gone through the statements of all the Watchmen involved to determine the level of collusion, and the degree to which one of them was telling untruths. I've also pieced together an analysis of what is most probably the correct sequence of events on the night in question."

"Thank you, Grace" André said. "Victor, did I tell you that internal security is one of our remits? If you've ever asked the question "who watches the Watchmen", then in this time and place it's us. Grace has been investigating whether there was active involvement from the Watch when Chrysophrase's boys took out the strongroom at the Commercial Bank, or whether it was a case of "It's three in the morning, nothing's happening, let's take it as read that All is Well and bunk off for a coffee and a warm at the all-night café three streets away".

"And while they were away, a group of very large trolls came along, punched the bank wall through, and very literally took out the entire strongroom. One troll at each corner." said Grace. "I'm tasked with determining if they took an inducement to be several streets away, which is corruption, or whether it was just old-fashioned Watch custom and precedent, which is merely ineptitude."

Victor couldn't help noticing that down there at the ankle, her stocking really was blue… and if she styled her hair differently and wore more flattering spectacles, that long angular face could be quite strikingly attractive… and put her in more feminine clothes designed for a woman of thirty years younger… he shook off the thought, aware she was glowering at him.

She gave him an "I have seen and acknowledged you. And you are not especially interesting" look, and asked "Is that all, Inspector? I have got more work to do here"

Caked in mud from the waist down, Angua stomped into the Yard, the expression on her face daring other watchmen to laugh. Ye Gods, that was the last time she was going to go on patrol with the River police! How much gods-damn effort did it take to patch up the holes in a boat… Her sandals squelching with Ankh mud, she stomped down the stairs to the ladies shower room. She could hear a shower running, and sniffed the air. One person. {sniff} The sharp cyan-coloured smell of soap. {sniff}Quinces' brand with artifical apple scent. Masking the underlying… Vampire. Ah well…

Gratefully, Angua undressed, the human side of her pleasantly anticipating a long hot soak. From the other side of the shower curtain, Sally called "Bath time, Angua?"

Inwardly, there was an apprehensive whimper. Mentally comparing her to a bovine creature, Angua stepped out of her condemned sandals and turned to get a towel.

"Afternoon, miss".

"What's he doing in here?" she screamed. Stepping out of the shower and toweling her hair dry, Sally flashed her a toothy grin.

"Don't be so uptight, Angua, he's a troll!"

"And male!"

"Well, yes, but trolls go around virtually naked all the time, by human standards. And we're human. Well, broadly speaking, anyway. You're right, I'd chase him out of here if Jade or Smokie had been doing dirty work, and they were in here hosing it off - there you go, he's blushing, it's the thought of Smokie in here, stripped down to the stone, am I right, Brick? - but human nudity doesn't mean a thing to you, does it, Brick?"

"Don't worry me, miss, but some of dem lads upstairs gets hot under the collar about it. Dey want to know where your birthmarks are and t'ings."

"T'ings?" Angua queried.

"Like your vestigial nipples." Sally clarified. "The two spare pairs you don't need as a human."

"Say nothing" Angua growled. Then relented slightly, looking at the troll's broad honest face. Brick had failed the entry test for a troll officer in the Watch; Vimes, knowing this was Detritus' adopted son, and knowing something of his past history with drugs, had instead offered to keep him on as a general hand, odd-job-troll, catering assistant, and doer of the hundred-and-one everyday jobs the Yard needed in support.

"You know what to say about me, don't you, Brick?" Sally prompted, nonchalantly doing her hair up in a turban.

"Yes, miss. I'm to tell dem Watchmen all about dem tattoos you has all over you, der ship in sail, der heart and daggers and stuff, and all the scars from when people has killed you wit' der wooden stakes and dey couldn't find der heart."

Angua looked across at Sally's totally smooth unblemished skin, and her eyes narrowed. But she recognized style, and nodded.

"Good lad. You finished the job down here?"

"Yes, miss. I've blocked dem new spy holes that appeared in der ceiling. And filled der hole miss Precious made, when she punched up through der floor at someone who was looking at her."

"And is Constable Williams recovered yet?"

"Mr Igor said the operation went alright, miss."

"Now be a brick, Brick, and go upstairs to the tank, and see about stoking the boiler and getting lots more hot water for Sergeant Angua? She looks like she's been out rolling in mud, dirty girl, and it's high time for her bath."

Angua winced again; she could never prove that Sally was saying it deliberately, but… As Brick saluted and left the room, she stepped into the shower. Damn and drat and blast the bloody vampire: tepid water. But if Brick's on the case, it shouldn't take too long for it to warm up.

Sally followed her in to the wet area and perched on the stone bench. She drew one knee up to her chin and watched Angua through intensely knowing eyes.

"You have to laugh at the lengths they'll go to, don't you? I came down here an hour or two ago with Precious and held back while she used the shower. Right underneath where they put the latest spy-hole, incidentally. The poor girl had the shock of her life when she saw an eye looking down at her. So did Williams, as it was me he was expecting to see! And you know Precious Jolson, all she needed to do was to reach up a few inches and prod her finger up through the hole. She over-did it, though, put her whole fist up through the ceiling. Igor said he should be OK in a few days, though Mr Vimes was thinking of putting him on a charge for a self-inflicted injury. And damage to Watch premises."

"Self-inflicted injury? But it was… oh, I see."

"Trying to perve on a shy girl like Precious while she was in the buff. Nobody defends her privacy like a shy girl." Sally changed subject. "Brick's come on a lot, hasn't he, since Mr Vimes got him this job? It keeps him out of harm's way, the troll officers look out for him because, well, Detritus is Detritus, and since he's been off the drugs, his brain's been healing. OK, he'll never be a philosophy professor, but by troll standards, there's quite a bright lad in there. Reckon he's got a chance with Jade or Smokie?"

Angua thought about the issue. Constable Jade was one of two female trolls on the force: from what she'd heard, the unattached male officers thought both were lookers, but the majority viewpoint tended towards Constable Smoked Obsidian, known to all as "Smokie".

"I think they like him, but maybe not that much" Angua said. "He's not brought in any pretty boulders or massive amounts of aargroohaa for Smokie yet? And neither of them have hit him over the head with a rock yet? Thought not. Besides, they both know how hard Ruby can punch, and there's one protective stepmother for you. Any damn female no better than polished coprolite sniffing around her boy is going to get to know about it, and it makes them wary". The hot water started to kick in. Oh, thank you thank you thank you Brick! "And anyway, he's an immature young male troll. Troll women value strength, and Brick must realise there are a hundred bigger, stronger, and older troll males who'll walk all over him to get a chance with Smokie."

"Angua, have you noticed we always seem to have our best conversations when we're in the shower?" Sally laughed. Yes, hot running water kills the smell of vampire, thought Angua, then chided herself for being petty. If you could manage to put the old werewolf-vampire animosity aside, Sally was actually OK and they got on well. Angua was forced to admit she actually liked the vampire.

"Ah, come here, it's caked all down your back, you mucky pup!". Sally leapt up off the bench. Angua sensed the vampire drawing nearer, and reaching for a sponge and soap.

Grrrr. Angua wondered about protesting, but didn't she and Sally watch each other's backs on the street? Not far from there to washing each other's backs, and anyway it felt quite pleasant.

"I think I know why you're all tensed up. It's Victor, isn't it? He's such an innocent. I don't think he's stopped to realize the impact he's made. Now, let Doctor Sally make her diagnosis. The patient is a normal healthy female werewolf, who for some years now has been in a happy relationship with a human called Carrot. She's never ever considered any other - human - male in that time, simply because nobody comes close to the standard of human male excellence set by Carrot Ironfoundersson. I mean, look at the general standard of men in the Watch. Either they're taking the Fred Colon bodybuilding course - in thirty short years you too can have a body like mine - or else they're religious zealots, Morris dancers, long-dead zombies, not human, just not interested in girls, or they're Nobby Nobbs. No competition. Then out of the blue there suddenly comes this gorgeous man with a lovely body. He's intelligent. His conversation is quite a few levels above beer and curry. He listens. He makes intelligent comments. He's sensitive. He even uses decent aftershave. All of a sudden, Carrot might have competition, right? You're tempted. And it's getting to you, because you want to be faithful to Carrot."

Angua went Grrrr! again inside. The damn bloody vampire had nailed the problem, hadn't she. But she was good at neck massage. (The treacherous inner voice said "yes, to soften up the prey). The tension was just melting away. Oooh, and she's good at backs, too… "I didn't notice you holding back, the other day." Angua said. "Look, Victor's yours if he wants you. And it'd be doing everyone a favour. Just a little bit lower, that's it! But Sally, there was a girl. Oooh, that's the spot! Damn damn drat! I said that out loud! He told me they went touring the world together after Vetinari invited them to leave the city. "The Road to Genua, the Road to Klatch, the Road to Bhangbhangduc, the Road to Sumtri, the Road to Fourecks 1", he said. They split up in Fourecks. You might find he's still sensitive on that score and he hasn't quite left her behind yet. Be gentle, huh?"

Sally laughed, put the sponge down, patted Angua on the back, and went back to combing her hair. "You can manage to do the rest on your own, Angua? I hear André Loudweather2 invited Victor to his club tonight. Now I don't think our Vic's that much in touch with his feminine side, so very soon, there's another heart he'll have broken."

"André? André who's into musicals? His… club? Oh dear…"

They dried and dressed in silence: Angua unwillingly contemplating the concept that her closest girlfriend in the Watch had turned out to be a Gods-damned bloody undead dratted vampire. And somehow I'm bonded to her.

"We should have another choir night3 soon." Sally suggested. "Invite the trolls." She paused and added: "First item on the hymn sheet: the delectably lovely Victor Tugelbend, who we're all falling in lust with".

_______________________________________--------

After meeting the selection of oddballs, misfits and generally strange people who made up the Cable Street Particulars, Victor was grateful to accept Inspector Loudweather's invitation to a spot of dinner at his club. One thing made Tugelbend eternally grateful: he couldn't see any of them applying gleeful and sadistically inventive torture to helpless prisoners. The most Grace Speaker might do would be to tongue-lash a man to within an inch of his life, and Hubert Turvy's creation sounded as if the Agatean Water Torture might be an occupational hazard - but certainly not an integral part of its design.

At least his future boss seemed reassuringly normal in every discernable way.

Victor and André walked on through the city, and Victor noted with vague interest that their path was taking them towards the Whor… he checked himself and reminded himself that these days it was the Streets of Negotiable Affection. His beat partners had all been emphatic on this point: It might have been called the Whore Pits before you went away, but the Seamstresses' Guild have had the place taken upmarket since then. Don't let them hear you using the W word. Or the P word. André didn't seem like the sort of guy who'd take his pleasures here, he seemed a bit more refined than that. But a gentlemen's' club, in the Wh… Streets of Negotiable Affection?

"We're here", André said, with satisfaction, arriving at a door, unmarked except for as painted blue cat, posed as stretching itself langorously. He knocked: the classic spy's hatch opened, and a voice said "Ooh, it's you, dear heart! Just a moment!"

The voice turned out to belong to one of the largest human doormen Victor had ever seen. Bald, except for a luxuriant upper-lip, and all muscle, shown off to advantage in a tight white vest. Leather trousers, and a curious peaked cap in the same material.

"Tippytoes, this is Victor. My guest for tonight. Victor, this is Tiptoes, the doorman. He makes sure undesirables don't get in."

"Oooh, a new boy in town! Go right in, heartface, you're with our André!"

Victor was led into a large room, laid out as a bar-room, with a stage at one end, a bar down each side, and tabled seating for nearly a hundred. "Usual table, André?" said a waiter. As he walked away, Victor wondered what it must be like to work in trousers that were so tight, and his eyes watered. As he got used to the low lighting, he could see the décor consisted of statues and paintings of young men, largely dressed classically4 and posed to best show off details of musculature and skin tone. André ordered drinks, and they perused the menu, talking about details of structure and organization of the Particulars.

Victor, looking for a conversational opener, mentioned he'd seen almost a full shelf of files labelled "Postmaster General", and asked if the post-holder was a crook under investigation.

"That's just it, we're not quite sure" said André. "Which is one reason why Mr. Vimes wants us to keep an open file on Mr. von Lipwig. The only problem is, everything he does keeps filling the files up, but there's no actual hard evidence of criminality. Oh hell, why are we talking shop?" André's intelligent sad eyes looked hard at Victor, who felt there was something odd going on that he couldn't quite identify. "There's a wonderful cabaret on tonight. You'll enjoy it! Did I mention I also work for the Opera House? If any act here is outstanding in any way, I usually try to get them on the bill and give them an opportunity in front of a far larger audience, if their material fits."

The club was filling up as they ate. Victor wondered why there appeared to be no women among the diners. Then he put it from his mind: André had said this was a gentlemens' club, after all. This is the sort of place where men come to get away from wives and girlfriends?

"Annnn-DRÉ!" a shout that was almost a high-pitched shriek.

"Oh, hi, Jules!"

The two men exchanged a hug and kisses on the cheek. Be cosmopolitan, Victor told himself. This is how perfectly normal men in places like Quirm and Brindisi greet each other. When in Quirm…

"How are you getting on among all those big butch policemen these days?" Jules asked.

"I've brought one with me. Victor, this is Julian. He works at Hugo's"

Victor sighed, and opened his arms for a hug and a kiss on both cheeks. It wasn't as bad as he thought, but he wondered about the hand that briefly fell on his bottom.

"Oooh, inn'e bold! He's forward, inn'e, 'Dré!" sighed Jules, who pulled up a free chair at the table. André signed for more drinks from a waiter, who this time was wearing very tight Borogravian lederhosen.

"And how are you getting on in the rough tough take-no-prisoners world of hairdressing?"

"Perfectly bloody. Mr Hugo's still in a hissy fit about losing his shop frontage to the Post Office - you know they sent an actual golem round to rip his name down? - but he stole them big letters from the Post Office in the first place, what can the silly mare expect? And Lady Sybil give me a flea in my ear, she did. I said to her, she'd have lovely thick riah if she gave up the dragons. God's gift to fat omis, lovely riah, it's compensation for chunky lallies, but not when smelly foul dragons are burning it off all the time! So of course she got into a right madam paddy when I advised her to give up dragons. You should have vada'd the look on her eek. Nasty smelly things. I can't see the point, myself!"

"Did I mention that Jules styles Lady Sybil's hair?" André inquired. "Well, her wigs, to be exact."

"Is he speaking the same language as us?" Victor said, perplexed.

"Sorry. "Lallies" are legs. "Riah" is hair. "Omi" is a woman. Think of it as a sort of canting slang."

A dapper, well-dressed little man came over to the table: Victor was fascinated by his gait, which took the form of a lot of little steps done very quickly, that was halfway to being a sort of dance step. He also noted how the waiters deferred to him, in a way that had "proprietor" written all over him.

"André!" he beamed, and then the double peck on the cheek. "Jules!" (double-peck). "And who's THIS? New trade?"

"A colleague from the Watch, Frank."

"Oooh, nice to have a police presence with us tonight!"

"Frank Harris5, proprietor of the Blue Cat Club, may I present Victor Tugelbend, City Watch?"

"Charmed, I'm sure!" Again, Victor did as the Quirmians do, and Mr Harris stepped back, smiling. "Seems like a nice boy. We've got a live one here, André!"

"Cabaret's starting". The lights dimmed and the club hushed.

The curtains drew back on a rather boyish-looking girl - the first one Victor had seen in the club - wearing a scanty leotard, stockings and high-heels, topped off with a bowler hat. She was sitting astride a cane-backed chair, and staring out into the audience. The music started, and she performed a song about the inadvisability of sitting at home in your room when you could be out having fun. Victor quite enjoyed the next hour and a half, although he was sure people were rubbing their legs against his under the table, and at one point he distinctly felt a hand on his thigh, which he gently but firmly removed. So dark in here people are missing their own legs, he thought. André was taking notes: using the essential Watchman's skill of reading upside down, he read

Not sure about VT. Mixed signals. And Must find way of re-writing this for the O.H. Too good for small venue like BCC.

Now, the lights had dimmed. The manic compére had set the scene with "And meanwhile, out in the Überwaldean mountains!" (a wolf howled) "A new movement has arisen! Wolfgang, Fuhrer or - perhaps - even Furrier, of the Greater Werewolf Reich, we salute you! "

The light picked out a tall solo singer, in ornate black military uniform, wearing a wolf's head. He began an anthem - Fatherland, Fatherland, give me a sign… which swelled up into a full chorus of werewolves singing Tomorrow belongs, tomorrow belongs, tomorrow belongs to me!

He read, with difficulty, André's notes:

Simply must stage this at the O.H. VT - vanilla? (hope) or straight? (no hope) Memo - do not invite Angua. Suspect this is too close to family for her. Recent memories.

The interval curtain rose. The girl singer with the cabaret came front of house, wrapped in a red dressing gown with an Agatean dragon rising up the back. Fending off appreciative fans, she came to André's table and sat down.

"How was I, darlings?" she inquired, in a surprisingly husky voice.

"You get better and better, Lola!"6 André assured her.

"So why haven't you got me a spot at the Opera House yet?" Lola complained.

"I'm still looking for the right vehicle for you. And I have to deal with Mr Bucket, who is a very conservative man in certain respects. Who just happens to own the building."

She pouted. Then "Who's this?", simultaneously moving her chair nearer to Victor.

Victor swallowed, and hastily introduced himself. The need for further conversation was removed by the compére bouncing back on stage.

"And now! A very special treat for habituées of the Blue Cat Club and one which you will all love. In this second half of our cabaret performance! All the way from Fourecks on their first major residency in Ankh-Morpork! Give a great big Blue Cat Club welcome to… Petunia, the Desert Princess!"

The crowd thundered out its applause. Four women in elaborate evening dresses and heavy makeup appeared on stage. Victor squinted: there was something a little bit strange about them that he couldn't quite make out. They launched into a crowd-pleaser that really couldn't go wrong with an Ankh-Morpork audience, who appreciate their songs being easy to hum and packed with entendres of various pluralities. Something about a man who discovers a kookaburra stuck in his dunnie and who tries to extract it from the inexorable grip of his funnel-web, whilst using only a woggle-iron that has seen better days.

Oh, that's it, Victor thought, working it out. It's one of those comedy acts where men dress as women to get the maximum impact as regards visual humour. He'd had the growing suspicion that aspects of the evening had passed him by and that he might be out of his depth with some things that were going on around him. But he'd seen enough pantomime dames to know where he was with a drag act. _No worries, mate_, as they say in Fourecks. Lola was still skewering him with hungry looks and he could have sworn here was something of the same in André's eyes, but the performance was good and the champagne was hitting the right spots. Lola put a circulation-stopping hand on his thigh and edged closer. He gulped.

To distract himself, he looked back to the stage. Funny, he thought, there was none of the exaggeration nor the big red bloomers with white dots that characterized Ankh-Morpork drag. It was as if those four men down there were trying their hardest to look like elegant, sophisticated, attractive, glamorous women. Those four men? There was something odd about the one second from the right, something hard to quantify… something out of place here. Ah she's coming out into the audience with a torch song. I shouldn't have drunk so much champagne. It's losing its impact now, it tastes just like fizzy soda.

"Do you want to dance later?" Lola asked him.

Victor wouldn't exactly have described himself as the world's most passionate man, but something about the night, the champagne, and Lola, was acting on him. She smiled and squeezed his hand and breathed an invitation that went straight to his hindbrain for an RSVP. Won't you come home with me?

The odd-one-out-looking one of the Petunias was approaching his table, performing her song and schmoozing diners. Oddly enough, the ones she schmoozed appeared to be doing double-takes and appeared indifferent or resentful, as if they'd been short-changed. Victor heard scandalized whispers "She's a real woman!" and "that's an omipaloni if ever I vada'd one!", and then she was at their table, just feet away. He sat bolt upright, suddenly sober. He saw the sudden light of appalled recognition in her eyes and she faltered, then stopped.

"Ginger?"

"Victor?"

"You? Here?"

"Well, I was just going to ask you that."

Ankh-Morpork people, regardless of age, gender, species, race and sexual preference, all love a good piece of spontaneous street theatre, and this was street theatre. The entire nightclub watched, agog.

"Told you she was a real omi!" said a languid voice, and was shushed.

"Well, that just about does it." She said, in a towering voice, trying to keep her anger in. "How is it that every time, and I mean every time, I'm onto something good, I'm working in entertainment, people like what I do, and I feel I'm getting somewhere, up pops Victor bloody Tugelbend to put a great big spoke in it and spoil it all for me? I'd never have clocked you in a million years as a customer in a place like this, Victor, and now I find you've either changed horses in mid-stream, or else you're too maddeningly bloody innocent to know what sort of a place this is, because here you bloody well are, messing things up for me AGAIN, and I'm bloody well sick of it!"

Victor, feeling he had to make a contribution, aware of all eyes suddenly on him, turned apologetically to André.

"Ginger. That is, Theda Withel. My ex-girlfriend."

André nodded back, understanding. He reflexively made a note. Victor read: "VT conclusively straight. Alas."

Jules made a contribution. "Well, if we're all getting introduced, that's Lola. And hi, I'm Julian, and this is my friend André!"7.

Ginger fixed Victor with a fiery stare. A wisp of red hair flipped down her brow from under a suddenly askew wig.

"Getting on well with Lola, are you?" she inquired, noticing the proprietary hand on his thigh.

Victor babbled. "Well, she seems like a nice girl and she's a good singer and seems jolly interesting to know…"

"She's really called Derek. But good luck, if that's what you want."

"Bitch" said Derek.

"Neilette? If you've quite finished down there, we've got a show to do!" a nasal Fourecksian voice shouted from the stage.

"Neilette?"

"My stage name". Ginger hissed. "And I won't be seeing you later, so don't wait!" She turned and flounced off with a finality Victor had seen at least twice before. Victor turned to André, Jules and Lola/Derek, and looked apologetic.

"Could we start again from the top, please? With all the missing bits filled in? Assume I've been, I don't know, brought up by nuns or something."

Sally sidled up to Victor in the crush of Watchmen the next morning. She was grinning, never a comfortable sight from a vampire.

"Had a gay old time last night, did you?"

Hungover and short of sleep, Victor winced.

"Never mind, I can tell you were saved from a fate worse than death. All I can read in you is lack of sleep and too much of that cheap fizzy slop Frank Harris passes off as champagne towards the end of the night, when people are too pissed to notice. Pure hangover fodder!"

Victor remembered that he'd been absolutely intoxicated with Lola and… had… almost… gone… home… with… her - HIM… oh dear Gods… he grimaced and put his head in his hands.

Sally put gentle hands on his shoulders as he rocked back and forth making mumbling noises. She exuded warmth, concern, and sympathy, and then, hugging him from behind nd leaning down to whisper in his ear, said, softly:

"Never mind, Victor. I'm sure Derek would have been gentle with you!"

On the way out, Victor tried to ignore remarks of the "I heard you woke up feeling a little queer this morning!" variety, but suspected this one might well need time to settle down.

Later in the morning at Cable Street, Victor tried to faithfully follow the instruction from André to make himself at home and read some case notes, get a feel for the way we operate around here. He wasn't surprised to discover that the Inspector was absent from duty: he'd left a note to say he'd be busy at the Opera House.

Steeling himself, he went to put a file request in with Miss Maccalariat. She glowered at him across the top of her half-spectacles.

"You want to see the file on the Blue Cat Club. Reason?"

"I want to find out which theatrical agencies they use to source their performers, Miss Maccalariat." (There is no better cover than the truth, he thought).

"Oh, yes. They're renowned for seditious, distasteful and satirical comedy about the Patrician and other leading figures. I understand exactly. That's why André keeps them under close personal surveillance." For a moment her severity melted and a mistiness intruded on her hard eyes. "He must trust you already, if he's taking you on sensitive missions! I'll bring the files to your desk, Mr Tugelbend".

Memo, thought Victor. Middle-aged spinster file clerk who has God-like power to grant or deny access requests. She is quietly in love with André and doesn't think anyone has noticed. He has cooked up a cover story to explain why he visits the club so often. And having led a sheltered life and thinking her beloved André can't possibly be one of those, she believes it. This can be exploited. At the least, it got me a "Mr".

The files arrived. Victor sat down for an informative read. He opened the one labelled Blue Cat Club. Access: restricted.

Hmm, a brief summary page at the front. André had dismissively called this the "See Spot Run" page.8 Victor skipped this, then passed quickly through the inserts: playbills, advertising flyers, iconographed copies of Frank Harris's membership cards for the Seamstresses' Guild, and Guild of Ecdysiasts, Nautchers, Cancanieres and Exponents of Exotic Dance, location map, iconographs of the club premises, and assorted reviews of past acts.

A set of interlinked memos made him pause:-

Sir. I remain firmly, of the opinion that, this Club should be closed. It contravenes the Immoral Practices Act (1645), the Licencing of Bawdy Houses Regulations of 1722, the various Obscene Displays and Publications Acts, and encourages certainne Practices of, an Unspeakable Nature. It represents a moral Blackspotte on the face of, the City, and allows those of a Certaine, Undesirable Ilk to congregate together.  
C.I.

Not a bloody chance, Carrot. Have you seen the backing Harris has got? Rosie Palm, for instance. If she admits him to the Guild then this is Guild business - not ours. We have a demarcation agreement with the Seamstresses and they police their own - you aren't the one who has to face Rosie at the Palace, not to mention the Aunts, and explain why you've broken the rules.

And how many times do I have to tell you the old laws don't apply any more? We have an agreement, Carrot: except in certain very precisely defined circumstances, we do not do Vice. The Seamstresses, however, Do. "Immoral", as that zombie bastard Slant will charge you a thousand dollars to tell you, does not mean "Illegal". Sometimes, in fact, it means "lucrative", and you're Dwarf enough to know that people who own gold mines can afford really good security.  
S.V.

Good grief, Carrot. Will you listen to yourself? For somebody as fair-minded and well-balanced as you, you have got such an enormous blind spot it makes Blind Hugh look like he's got twenty-twenty vision. Come on, say the s-word, you'll feel so much better for it. Sex. Sex. Sex. How is it that you come over all embarrassed about talking about this, and you ram your head so far up your bum that you can see daylight through your own nostrils? Besides, you work with André and you know about him - that's never worried you before , surely?  
A. v.Ü.

Sir. I had no intention to impugne the Professional, Reputation of Inspector Loudweather, who, remains a Watch officer of Integrity and Ability. It has to be Saidde that the Circles he mixes in are notte especially respectable or of High Morals. Also the Blue Catte Clubbe is a place where the Entertainment, when it isn't about certainne Strange Practices, consists of, scurrrilousJokes and Satires against the person of the Patrician which, are notte fair or deserved as, he is a hard-working Servante of the City. As this is a place of Moral Iniquity and Political Sedition, there must be a case for closure?  
C.I.

I'll ignore the insubordination to a senior officer expressed by a certain sergeant, as I can see where she might just have a point. Carrot, may I quote His Lordship to you? Vetinari is on record as having said that he actively approves of having a place in the city where disaffected citizens can gather to harmlessly release their tension by sharing witty topical and satirical jokes at the expense of its leading figures. In particular he highly approves of knowing exactly where it's located, exactly who is making the jokes, exactly who laughs at them, and exactly where they'll all be going home to afterwards. Which is work best done by Mr Drumknott's secretariat and I therefore see no reason for us to duplicate it. I repeat, Carrot, we are not a political police nor are we a moral enforcer.

As I have remarked, I don't give a stuff what my Watchmen do for entertainment when they're off-duty, provided it doesn't break the law nor does it bring the Watch into disrepute. (Ye Gods, I even tolerate Nobby Nobbs's leisure activities). If the Palace wants this place closed down, that's its decision. But for now it remains open.

Incidentally, Angua, while we're on this theme, do try not to sing so loudly at "choir practice". I draw the line at the Watch being called out to deal with a late-night bar disturbance, only to discover the offenders are my own Watchwomen.  
S.V.

Point taken, sir. I will advise other "choir members" accordingly.  
A. v.Ü.

THE COUNCIL OF CHURCHES, TEMPLES, SACRED GROVES AND BIG OMINOUS ROCKS  
c/o Temple of Small Gods  
Vimes!  
I demand to know what you are going to do about this abomination against Man and Gods that calls itself the Blue Cat Club. Synod has just carried the motion that these ungodly, un-Scriptural, perverted and if you ask me, downright insanitary and positively unhygienic, practices should be rooted up and taken out of our city and burnt, before some vengeful and trigger-happy God starts turning people into pillars of Salt left, right, and centre. Thirty-six of our major religions have voted for this, Vimes, and that's a lot of the religious vote there! Divinely yours  
The Extremely Reverend Hughnon Ridcully  
High Priest of Blind Io

Thoughts, anyone, before I tell him where to stick this memo?  
S.V.

It's a long way to Lancre, sir, and the High Priest is a busy man. Can he be relied on to take it there?  
C.I.

If I may interject, sir. It is true that thirty-six major religions voted for the closure of the BCC with extreme prejudice, but our observations suggest that priests of thirty-five of those are regular and very surreptitious plain-clothes visitors to the Club, including several of Bishop's rank and above, together with lay personnel such as the Choirmaster from the Temple of Small Gods. Perhaps the Extremely Reverend could discreetly be made aware of these facts?  
A.E Pessimal, Sergeant, and Gooseberry 1, Lance- constable, CSP.

Well done, A.E. You have made me a happy man, as I have an interview scheduled with Hughnon at three, and I am now quite looking forward to it. Put the evidence on my desk, would you?  
S.V.

To All on Mailing list 1 (senior ranks) :-  
I will instruct the C.S.P. to raise a file on the Blue Cat Club and its activities. If there is a need in the future, at least we've got a file to show, which clears us. And now can we say "correspondence closed"?  
S.V.

Victor smiled, and put the memos back in the file. What's this… a cutting from the Ankh-Morpork Times, dated about two months ago.

WHAT'S ON IN ANKH-MORPORK?

By your roving entertainments correspondent, Reg O'Biscuit.

Great news coming out of God*'s Own Country! Roving Reg O'Biscuit has learnt that one of Foureck's greatest girl-groups is being exported, like a fine lager, for the delight and entertainment of all you Pommie bladgers.

Roll out the red carpet and a crate of lager at the dockside when the packet ship Wollamalloo docks at Ankh, for Petunia the Desert Princess are arriving! There's going to be a change to the lineup your humble scribe last saw in the salubrious surroundings of the Dingo's Armpit Working Men's Social Club in Bugarup, as the original Neilette only bloody well managed to go and inherit the family brewery on the death of her father, talk about a stroke of luck, don't all go rushing at once, fellas. However, Darleen, Noelene and Letita assure me they've recruited a new Neilette to take her place, and the group are going to be up to strength for their residency in Ankh-Morpork. They open at the Blue Cat Club Cabaret , date to be arranged, and the tour is sponsored by Roo Beer - it really gets you leaping! - and the Fourecksian Embassy Department of Culture, in association with the C.M.O.T. Dibbler Management Consultancy. So for a taste of Fourecksian culture, it's the Blue Cat!  
(*Insert name of deity of choice)

Victor sat bolt upright. Damn: the file hadn't been updated for weeks. No more cuttings. "Hubert" he asked, "Do we get the Times daily?"

"Several copies, Victor. Going through the papers is a daily routine."

For some time, files forgotten, Victor scanned the back copies of the papers, hampered by the fact many articles had been scissored out for inclusion in various files.

O'Biscuit had been meticulous in acting as an evangelist for Fourecksian culture: Victor located three more articles charting the Petunias' arrival in Ankh. He scanned these for the information he wanted, then meticulously cut them out and added them to the Blue Cat Club file. The second-last one was an interview with the new (otherwise un-named) Neilette, in which she denied that being a Pom was a disadvantage to her in learning the part.

"Fair go's, I've been resident in Fourecks for a year two, since just after the Big Wet! And I'm re&lly looking forw^~ard to being part of the entertainment business in Ankh-Morpork again.

O'Biscuit then interjected to say he'd heard they were staying at a really swank hotel, is that right?

Yes, Mr Dibbler said not to worry about the cost. I've worked with him before, so I just know he won't do anything like deduct the hotel bill from our pay. I'm also sure he'll pay us a percentage of the take, too, as well as the back pay still owing from when I last worked for him! We're all every excited to be staying at one of the best places, the

And the cutting ended there. No!!! screamed Victor, inside. He turned the page. Wouldn't you just bloody know it - somebody else had decided a cutting of their choice was more important and that had also neatly excised the last few lines of O'Biscuit's Showbiz Shearings together with the information as to where Ginger was staying. He left the current issue of the Times unread.

He looked up the newspaper office address. Hmm. Gleam Street. Returning the files to Miss Maccalariat with thanks, he explained he was just going to gather a little intelligence in the field, and should be back for lunchtime. Resolutely, he stepped out, wondering how to secure an interview with the Press.

* * *

**(1)**CLICK, CLICK, CLICK… Of course, on Roundworld in the 1930's and 1940's, a popular series of movies were the Road To… films, musical comedies usually starring Bing Crosby, Bob Hope and a love interest, such as Dorothy Lamarr, playing Americans abroad, on the road to some exotic foreign destination.

**(2)**Who's awake? André's surname was never revealed in Maskerade. It seemed like fun to give him one that sounded not a million miles removed from Lloyd-Webber…

**(3) **Terry Pratchett freely acknowledges that a favourite novel, and an influence on the development of the Watch series, is Joseph Wambaugh's The Choirboys, a very black comedy about the Los Angeles Police Department. Here, "choir practice" is a euphemism for rank-and-file cops letting off steam by getting riotously drunk. Any LAPD cop in the "choir" could call a "choir practice" if policing had left them seeing something worse, or more emotionally troubling, or just plain distasteful, than usual…

**(4) **A euphemism for "not wearing much of anything at all, really".

**(5) **The original Frank Harris was a nineteenth century sexual libertine, who scandalised Victorian morality with his, er, frank, and candid accounts of liaisons with men and women. These run into eleven rather repetitive volumes of My Life and Loves. This Mr Harris and the Blue Cat Club are a footnote in one of the Watch books: again I thought it would be fun to run with an idea Terry Pratchett appears to discard in one passing joke.

**(6) **Alert readers might be thinking of a certain Kinks song here. They may be correct.

**(7) **Having dropped Victor right in it, as a straight innocent in Ankh-Morpork's only known gay nightclub, I was dying to be able to slip this line in… for younger readers, the reference is to a BBC radio comedy show called "Round The Horne" which broadcast in the late 1960's, at a time when male homosexuality was still illegal and attracted dire sanctions. Two recurring characters were an outrageous gay couple played by Kenneth Williams and Hugh Paddick, who were introduced with the catchphrase "Oh, hello! I'm Julian and this is my friend Sandy!" They also spoke the palare slang, very much an in-language used by gay men so as to be able to identify each other, at a time when getting it wrong could destroy a life and a career. This section of the story is sprinkled with palare, which should hopefully be translatable in context. "Round the Horne" is repeated on a never-ending Moebious loop on BBC Radio Seven and, for fans of Pratchett references, is yet another of those influences on his comic writing.

**(8) **In the novelisations of the TV programme "Yes, Minister", the cynical civil servant Sir Humphrey explains that every complex file should have a one-page summary at the front, written in very simple English, to spare people of limited intelligence, like politicians, from reading the whole thing. He called this the "Janet and John" page, after the first reading primer all British schoolchildren


	3. Meetings and decisions

Chapter 3: The Patrician Calls A Meeting

"Mr O'Biscuit is being very forthright, as always" observed Drumknott, setting down the latest copy of the Times.

"Yes. It would appear that not only Victor Marischino, but also Dolores Del Syn, is back in this city. A harmless co-incidence, seemingly." Vetinari steepled his fingers. "I am somewhat concerned, Drumknott. Considering that the adorable Miss Dearheart is currently off on another of her archaeological expeditions, the timing and the vectors of all this are all pointing in the same direction."

"Holy Wood, my lord?"

"Indeed, Drumknott. You might even say "_Holy Wood: The Sequel_", or "_Holy Wood: Part Two._" Vetinari sighed. "It takes no great intelligence to work out the plot, Drumknott. Memories of what was awoken the last time Holy Wood's energies were disturbed have faded with the years. People have short memories. They doubt what they saw, or indeed if anything was seen at all. And in a time of dangerous amnesia, where reports of certain disturbing happenings in far-away Fourecks are discounted as improbable, the principal players return to the city. One is content to take a job with the Watch, in a capacity where he will happily remain reassuringly obscure and out of public view. But the other still harbours dreams of a chimera-like fame in the public eye, as an entertainer. Meanwhile, the dear miss Dearheart and a party of her golems have left the city, and are traveling East in the direction of Holy Wood, in order to rescue a lost golem whom they claim is buried in that vicinity. Adora Belle believes it to be a lost Umnian Golem, that somehow got separated from its fellows some thousands of years ago."

"I'm sure our clear-up teams recovered everything of worth or potential danger from Holy Wood after the last time, my Lord. The survivors' reports said nothing of a Golem… "

Drumknott paused, and looked uneasy.

"Quite so, Drumknott. But they were all unanimous about one aspect of the dread Chthinema. Would you care to continue the plot of this particular clicks, Drumknott?"

"Disregard of some very obvious warning signals, combined with downright criminally stupid behaviour, leads to another occult incursion, mass destruction, mayhem, and panic, sir?"

"Indeed, Drumknott. With no guarantee of a Hero arising to save the world, alas."

"Shall I schedule a meeting, sir?"

"Capital idea. Invite the following possibly useful people and select a suitable venue. No great rush, Drumknott."

"This afternoon it is, then, sir". He took out a pencil and pad and prepared to take notes.

________________________________________------

Victor's intelligence-gathering trip took him past the Bucket, the Watch pub, and into the adjacent premises of the Ankh-Morpork Times. He walked into the noise of rattling and pounding, indicating that the Press never sleeps, and tapped a busy Dwarf on the shoulder. With a combination of sign language and shouting, he asked a question, showing his Watch badge. The Dwarf disappeared behind a door, and for a moment the racket reached ear-splitting decibels. But he had indicated "Editorial? That way!" and pointed to another door. Victor entered by it.

The noise of the printing floor was gratefully muted as he closed the door behind him. He was in a carpeted anteroom, at the far end of which was a desk occupied by a not unattractive middle-aged woman, whose face still reflected the triumph of hope over reality. A large troll, painted blue and gold, loomed up to his right.

"Sek-yoor-it-ee." It said, managing a four-syllable word with difficulty. "What's your game?"

"Tugelbend. City Watch." said Victor, aware he had to find a way past the Doorway Demons. He flashed his badge. The troll saluted.

"I'll take it from here, Lintel." the woman said. She looked Victor over and gave him a very warm and slightly desperate smile. Victor decided to capitalise on this. "I wonder if you can help me, miss" he said, with a shy smile. She visibly preened.

"Well, it's a few years since I was last called "miss"" she said. "I'm sure I could help you, Constable… ?"

"Tugelbend, miss. I'm looking for a writer by the name of Reginald O'Biscuit?"

"I'm Berenice. Berenice Houser. I usually work in Archives and Back Numbers, but I'm covering the reception desk while Chlorrie's at her lunchbreak."

A dim association formed in Victor's memory. "So normally… would I be right in thinking a Miss Chlorine Maccalariat is the receptionist here?"

A look of pain was visible on her face. "Yes. She's a very efficient receptionist, but to be honest, we're all hoping she gets head-hunted by the Post Office now it's open for business again. Mr de Worde was kind enough to write her a very good reference."

"Yerrs, it would en-harnce her career pros-pecks to a greater degree than the Times could offer" the door-troll intoned, as if remembering a good line he'd heard someone else use. Something in the troll's aspect made Victor think of Detritus, explaining with a shudder how the Agatean Water Torture could be made to work on trolls.

Victor silently thanked the Gods for arranging that he visit at lunchtime, and asked about O'Biscuit.

"Oh, I should imagine he'll be in the Wombat's Revenge by now. That's the Fourecksian pub on Sheer Street, he _always_ goes there for lunch."

"May I see his office?" He flashed a smile as well as his Watch badge. She blushed.

"I'm sure that will be alright. Unfortunately all the senior editorial staff are out now, for one reason or another. By the way, your face is really familiar. You look a little like that lovely actor who was in the Clicks a few years ago, Victor Maraschino. I kept a lot of the posters and the playbills." Her face fell. "My husband got jealous and accused me of spending too much time at the clicks. I really miss them. I know there was that trouble, but I wish somebody would bring them back".

He noted the absence of wedding ring, and thought "But she doesn't miss him".

"It's a coincidence, I agree" Victor said, with perfect truth. "But there could be worse people to share a face with. Corporal Nobbs, for one".

She giggled. "We're here, Mr Tugelbend. Do you need any help?" For some reason, a perfectly innocent-sounding request reformed itself in Victor's head as "_Do you want me to spend some time alone with you in a closed office belonging to somebody who is taking a very long lunch, in an otherwise deserted office corridor, where who knows what might happen between a woman and a man? After all, nobody can blame a respectable woman if she lets herself be seduced by Victor Maraschino!_" Victor politely declined, and she said "Let me know when you're finished and I'll see you out". Another brittle but hopeful smile, and he was on his own.

Right… quick search. Some rough notes came to hand on top of the general desk detritus. Victor scanned them.

"Coming soon to the Mended Drum! All the way from Fourecks, our bonzer contact sport of pro-am crocodile wrestling!

Be warned, pommies, in this game you are the amateur - the crocs are the professionals. And they don't muck around!

(Replaces Dwarf-Throwing. (_Cancelled by those blue-stocking stickybeak prodnoses of the Campaign for Equal Heights)_"

He replaced it hastily.

What are all these things on the spike…

He read:-

_Yes, Mr Dibbler said not to worry about the cost. I've worked with him before, so I just **know **he won't do anything like deduct the hotel bill from our pay. I'm also sure he'll pay us a percentage of the take, too, as well as the back pay still owing from when I last worked for him! We're all every excited to be staying at one of the best places, the Tump Tower Hotel, whi8ch we've heard of as one of the very best places in Ankh-Morpork…_

OK, he thought, time to go. I know where Ginger is staying now and it shouldn't be too difficult to work out a way of getting to speak to her. With a last look round to check everything in the poky untidy office was as it should be, he left the room. Whoops… always look to check if the route is clear…

"You? What are you doing here?"

"Oh. hello, Grace. I could ask you the same thing?"

Grace Speaker **(****2)** fixed Victor with a deadly glare, magnified from behind the unsuitable spectacles. "I do know I'm here legitimately. I've got a few pages of logic puzzles to drop off. Mr deWorde said to leave them on his desk if he's out and he'll take it from there. YOU, on the other hand, have been snooping."

"Watch business?" Victor ventured. She hummphed. "Wait here. I'll leave with you. If anyone asks, you escorted me here. But you owe me."

"A drink in the Bucket?" he asked. (Where did THAT come from, he gibbered internally).

She scowled at him. "Searching without a warrant has a different name, Victor. "_Breaking and entering_", perhaps." Whoops, he thought, recalling her remit to investigate possible corruption and irregular behaviour among Watchmen.

"I might ask for more than just a drink in the Bucket!" she scowled, and trotted down the corridor, past several of the flimsy, temporary-looking internal partitions, to the more permanent office door marked "EDITOR - Mr W. de Worde" .

He couldn't help noticing that she moved purposefully yet gracefully, and that her sole concession to more than just practical female clothing was a higher heel than you normally saw on a duty Watchwoman. She knocked, heard no reply, then slipped quickly in and out of the editor's office.

"Lucky for you everybody's out" she remarked.

They retraced their steps to the entrance, with the security troll tipping them a salute: Miss Houser gave Victor a cheery goodbye and invited him to call round again, you know, at lunchtime when I'm covering, one o'clock is good, as I have my own break then.

Victor noted the unspoken plea in her voice, and gave her his best Victor Maraschino smile.

"I won't ask how you weaselled your way in." Grace said, curtly. "Just so you know: you might have got every other woman in the Watch sighing as you walk past - as well as at least one of the men - but it isn't working on me, OK? All I've got right now is mild curiosity as to what exactly you wanted in there. When Mr de Worde finds out his newspaper's been raided by the Watch, you do know he's going to go Bursar, don't you? And if this means Commander Vimes is going to come in tomorrow morning with shaving cuts, he spreads it about with great vigour." She paused for a moment to let it sink in, and added "And I do work for the Times. Not in any great capacity, I compile material for the puzzles page and the odd crossword. It may not be much, but credit me with enough vanity to like seeing my work in print."

They walked across the road in silence to the City's unofficial Watch-house, the Bucket. Well, Victor walked, somewhat subserviently; Grace clattered, angrily. Even in broad daylight, the Gleam was dull and gloomy. There were not many Watchmen present, Victor was relieved to see: two Dwarven constables gave them a nod, then went back to morose drinking, and Constable Ping leaning on the bar. Victor got their drinks from the lugubrious Cheese, and escorted Grace to a remote table, not kidding himself that they hadn't been noticed and that it would not be circling Pseudopolis Yard as the latest hot gossip by this time tomorrow.

She thanked him, took a sip, then exhaled angrily. One leg crossed over the other, the toe of her shoe was gently kicking at the air as if she intended GBH on the very atmosphere.

She glared at him from behind her glasses, but he felt it was a less ferocious glare.

"You know" she said, "that up until a month or two ago, I was having quite an enjoyable life. I'd inherited the shop and the business from my father, I was doing quite well selling pet foods and placing otherwise unwanted animals into good homes. I'd got quite good at weeding out the unsuitable and the undesirable potential owners and I thought, in my own small way, I was doing good. Because my parents had ambitions for me and got me to the Quirm Academy, I had quite a good education. I loved Miss Trator's logic lessons and some of the puzzles she set. I loved Modern Languages with Miss Cumber. That stayed with me, and when the Times started up and started running things like crosswords, I designed a couple. I took them round to show to Mr de Worde. He printed them. I suggested a really difficult general knowledge quiz with the answers in the next day's paper so people had to come back to buy another copy to see where they'd been right and wrong.. He used it. And my life was happy, Mr Tugelbend. Happy. And then, out of the blue, I get a written invitation to tender for the pet food contract at the Palace."

She sipped. " OK, I thought, I'm up against Clancy's of Long Hogmeat, who had the contract for the Patrician's last dog before he died. I thought, well, they'll get it again for this new dog of his, won't he? This is just some auditing exercise where the Palace wants to show it's shopped around. I was certain Sid Clancy was going to get it again, AND he'll put that bloody sign back up over his door saying "By Palace Appointment" .

She paused, and took a long sip. "Only… I got the contract, didn't I? Vetinari himself came down to the shop, had a look around, introduced me to Mr Fusspot… " her expression softened "Who is such a funny little chap, you can't help liking him. And he told me I'd got the contract, well done. Oh, and there was possibly one other thing he'd like me to do, to prove my loyalty to the city beyond any possible doubt. The bastard. Which is how I ended up in the Specials and sent straight to the Particulars." She sipped again. "Could be worse. It's only two days a week, I find I quite like it, in an odd sort of way, and I've got Debbie to look after the shop. Right, that's my story. What about you?"

Victor gave her a brief version, which forced a smile from Grace. "Do you still have The BokeOfTheFilme?" she asked.

"The Librarian at the University took it. It's probably there now"

"Shame. I'd have loved to try and translate the symbols. Just out of interest."

Victor looked down at the pub table and saw their non-drinking hands were nearly touching. There was no apparent ring on hers. "Steady, steady" he advised himself, also aware of the half-smile on her face. A shadow loomed up over the table. Sergeant Detritus. "Sorry, miss" he rumbled. "Victor, you is needed to see der Patrician. Sorry if I've walked into anyt'ing private or personal, but dere is a City meeting at der University. Der Patrican, he said No Great Rush."

Victor looked apologetically at Grace and got to his feet.

"Funny, that's what he said to me when he suggested I join the Particulars" she said. "Better run along then. See you at work, Victor?"

"I hope so" Victor said, fervently.

Severely Restricted.  
This is copy #3.

Strictly NOTTE to be removed from the precincts of the Palace secretariat on pain of pain, save for the single Exception quoted below.

Distribution list:-

His Lordship Havelock Vetinari, Patrician

Rufus Drumknott, sec'ry

His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch. (Note: circulate directly to Ms. F. Maccalariat the Cable Street Particulars for _very_ safe keeping)

Minutes of an Extraordinary City Council Meeting, held at the High Energy Magic Building of Unseen University (First Draft).

In Attendance:-

His Lordship Havelock Vetinari, Patrician, in the chair

Rufus Drumknott, sec'ry and minute-taker

His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes.

Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully, Unseen University.

The Dean of Unseen University.

The Senior Wrangler.

The Professor of Post-Mortem Communications, Dr John Hicks (vivant)

The Professor of Post-Mortem Communications, Dr Flead (deceased)

The Emeritus Professor of Inadvisibly Applied Magic, Pro. Ponder Stibbons.

The Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography, Pro. Rincewind, with Attendant Bledlows selected for their discretion.

Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, City Watch.

Inspector André Loudweather, City Watch.

Lance-Constable Victor Tugelbend, City Watch, a.k.a. Victor Maraschino.

Mr Silverfish, Guild of Alchemists

Mr C.M.O.T. Dibbler, Entrepreneur

His Fourecksian Excellency Sir Desmond Matterhorn O.M., Ambassador to Ankh-Morpork, of the Sovereign State of Fourecks

The Postmaster-General

The Master of the Royal Mint

The Tax-Gatherer General(elect)

Ms. Theda Withel, a.k.a. Dolores del Syn, a.k.a. Neilette, a.k.a. Ginger

Mr. Leonardo da Quirm, Scientific Advisor to His Lordship the Patrician.

DEATH, Gatekeeper of the Great Unknown, The Reaper, Keeper of the Omega.

By Omniscope link from Fourecks:-

The Prime Minister of Fourecks plus attendant Bush Rangers

Archchancellor William Rincewind, Arch-chancellor, University of Bugarup

Prof. B. Smoth, Dean of the University of Bugarup

Dr Bruce Brucesson, Emeritus Pro. Of Linguistics, University of Bugarup

Most of the invited attendees had gathered in the H.E.M. building by 1:50pm. His Lordship opened proceedings with "Ah, Mr Maraschino. What am I saying, of course it's Lance Constable Tugelbend, isn't it? I'm so glad you were able to make it. Pray take a seat with the other Watch delegates." (_For Patrician's eyes only, (FPE)Y: it was noted that Sir Samuel looked at Tugelbend and tapped meaningfully on the cover of a copy of the Times, at which Tugelbend was observed to redden in the face._) His Lordship then inquired on the progress of the Omniscope link to Bugarup University, which is the reason why the meeting was held at the University. Professor Stibbons assured him that HEX was closing the connection any second now, my Lord.

The Omniscope link connected up to Faculty members at the University of Bugarup. Apparently Mr Stibons was able to link it up, via the HEX machine, to amplifying devices which intensified the sound and made the picture larger, for the benefit of all in the room. The initial dialogue was as follows:

**Archchancellor William Rincewind (ACW): **

Is this flaming thing on? Listen, you fellas, we're going to be talking to this Vetinari bloke, and rumour is, he's a fly galah who could hide behind a corkscrew and talk the bottle into opening itself, so be careful what you say, OK? Right, no worries. Hey, I can see that pissant galah Des Matterhorn, how'ya doin', y'old soak?

**Professor Ponder Stibbons (PS): **

Er, we're live, Archchancellor.

**ACW and associates: **

G'day!

**Havelock Vetinari, Patrician (HVP): **

Good afternoon, Archchancellor… . Good heavens, Drumknott, it says here…

**Rufus Drumknott (RD): **

Yes, my lord. That is perfectly correct.

**HVP: **

Well, there are two words I thought I would never ever use next to each other without an intervening comma. Archchancellor Rincewind, welcome to Ankh-Morpork. Is the Prime Minister with you?

**ACW: **

He certainly is, your Patrician-ness, we got him out on parole for the arvi!

_(The Omniscope cuts to a woebegone figure in arrowed prison uniform, firmly shackled in between two burly Bush Rangers.)_

**The Prime Minister (PM): **

G'day, your lordship.

**HVP: **

Good afternoon, Prime Minister. I trust your cell is comfortable?

**PM: **

No worries, m'lord.

**HVP: **

Capital, capital. But there is an issue on which we both have our worries, is there not, Prime Minister?

_(The PM nods, miserably)._

**HV,P: **

May I bring in your Ambassador at this point? Mr Ambassador, what do you understand by the term bunyip?

**Sir Desmond Matterhorn (DM): **

G'day, m'lord. (belches, nearly spills wine). It's an abo word, meaning "_What was big-fella creator ON when he devised THAT?"_ The Abos have a superstition about nasty creatures coming out of the woodwork and turning what they call the Dreamtime into the Nightmaretime.

**ACW: **

We believe them to be quasi-demonic entities out of the Dunnie Dimensions, my lord, or if you prefer, bloody great ugly galahs with too many heads and legs and not enough soft parts.

**HV,P: **

And I believe you had something of a plague of them in the… (consults notes) Arse Rock… . area of the Outback. (Stifled laughter from Sir Samuel Vimes) Fortunately, a long way away from any major population centres. Could we just go into the relevant background details so that my city counsellors gathered here are fully briefed? Oh, and do briefly dispose of the etymology of "Arse Rock", for the benefit of Sir Samuel.

**ACW: **

Bruce? Your kookaburra.

**Dr Bruce Brucesson (BB): **

M'lord, the indigenous natives of Fourecks…

**ACW, PM, DM: **

The Abboes…

**BB: **

_**The indigenous natives of Fourecks**_ believe that the enormous rocky outcrop, which stands alone in the middle of the Nottabeer plain, fell out of the sky one day thousands of years ago. They call it Alora, which is a remarkably compact way of saying Bloody great lump of rock shaped like a bum bloody well fell out of the sky with a bloody great noise, strewth mate, bloody nearly woke us up out of the Dreamtime. It does look like two large rounded pieces separated by a cleft, and the first explorers weren't all that imaginative, so…

**HV,P**: Indeed. Thank you for your contribution. Prime Minister, please continue.

**PM: **

Well, m'lord, it all began two or three years ago, shortly after the Great Wet and the trade routes opening up, and those bloody clever Moving Picture things arrived from Ankh-Morpork, how did'ja manage those? People went to see the Moving Pictures and loved them, and the Bugarup Alchemists Institute got the secret of making the film and working the picture boxes they'd bought, and then they thought: the light quality out near Arse Rock is bloody-well bonzer for filming in, and the government gave them a grant to pay for the new clicks…

_At this point, the Prime Minister of Fourecks was interrupted by a commotion, as two Watchmen delivered a struggling and loudly protesting young woman to the meeting. _

**HV,P: **

Ah, Officers von Humpeding and Jolson. I see you've brought the young lady to our little gathering, as I instructed.

**PM: **

Strike a light, mate, that's Dolores Del Syn, from off the clicks!

**HV,P: **

Indeed. Otherwise known as (consults notes) Ginger, Theda Withel, and currently, I believe, Neilette.

**Ms. Theda Withel, a.k.a. Dolores del Syn, a.k.a. Neilette, a.k.a. Ginger (TW): **

WHY have I been arrested and brought here? It's because of Victor flaming Tugelbend again, isn't it? I'm a citizen of Fourecks now! I want to see the ambassador!

**His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes. (SV): **

Easily arranged. He's the one with the stained suit, saying hello to the wine supply, just over there. Thank you, ladies. You won't take it the wrong way if I ask you to leave? Jolson, you close the doors on the way out and stand guard. Make sure nobody comes out without leave and nobody comes in without clearance. Sally, I know what your curiosity's like and I know what vampire hearing's like, so you go and patrol a long way away, if you don't mind.

**HV,P: **

Do continue, Prime Minister.

**PM: **

And that's when we got the first of these flaming bunyips appearing out of nowhere. At a clicks screening in Malice Springs. According to the survivors, and there weren't many, something happened to the screen, everyone in the audience tranced out, they got totally zoned, and these bloody bunyips got out through the screen, somehow.

**Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully, Unseen University. (AMR): **

Great Gods, man, that's how it happened here, at Holy Wood! Gave us no END of trouble till we sorted it out!

**ACW: **

Mustrum, y'old fart! I think we need to get our heads together on this one!

**AMR: **

I should be happy to offer you the benefit of our superior knowledge, Mr Rincewind. So… how many creatures from the Dungeon Dimensions are there, roaming around Fourecks right now?

**ACW: **

Not many, not now. I think the wildlife did for most of them. It's all very well being a fifty foot tall monstrosity with tentacles and an armour-plated chitinous shell and mandibles the length of a surfboard, but if a funnel-web spider or a Cross-Barred Desert Cobra bites you, you're still going to turn your toes up. If there are more of 'em out there, Fourecks is a big place, a thing could roam for miles in the outback and not see another living creature. Or water. You come into the physical universe, you have to obey the rules of the physical universe, don't you, and that means things like "find water", and "don't tread on a funnel-web spider". Or annoy the sheep. Well, the moment we worked it out, that it's people's belief in the clicks that attracts these things, and if you have enough people in the same place, that's enough belief to make an interdimensional doorway for them, we barred the clicks, of course. Shame, really. That Dolores del Syn could have made a wizard give up the celibacy. And we had these home-grown clicks girls. Coolie Incontinence-Sheet3 , Nicole Younggoat, Natalie Argumentia… lovely sheilas all…

**HV,P: **

Mr Silverfish, Mr Sendivoge, a moment, please.

**Mr Silverfish, Guild of Alchemists (Mr S): **

My Lord?

**HV,P: **

I believe we owe our good friends in Fourecks an apology, as we seem to have inflicted a supernatural disaster on them with our rather carelessly cast-off alchemical equipment, have we not?

**Mr S: **

My lord?

**HV,P: **

At considerable expense, shortly after the end of the Moving Pictures debacle, I ordered the confiscation and collection of ALL clicks films, moving-picture boxes, and moving picture iconographs. I also sent a team of city employees out to the site of Holy Wood to scour the area thoroughly for any such exposed films and other materials, and to destroy any unexposed octo-cellulose film they found in a safe and controlled manner. Any potentially dangerous material was returned to the City under heavy guard.

**Mr C.M.O.T. Dibbler, Entrepreneur (CMOTD): **

Er… you didn't manage to locate any large amounts of money out there, at all, sir? Proceeds of what up until then had been the perfectly legitimate screenings of clicks films, and temporarily kept on site until it could be banked?

**HV,P: **

We did, indeed! And jolly useful it was, in defraying the cost to the City exchequer for all the damage, havoc and disturbance that was caused! Not least, as I recall, by a herd of one thousand elephants, ordered by a citizen whose name eludes me for the moment. If you still feel you have a case for compensation, Mr Dibbler, by all means discuss it, at your own expense, of course, with Mr Slant, who handles the City's legal affairs. Now turning back to you, Mr Silverfish. I clearly recall, as it was your Guild that started this business off in the first place, requesting you to dispose of this material in the safest possible way. Is it possible you mis-heard me, hmmm? That you chose to interpret the words "Dispose of" as meaning "_Export to Fourecks at a profit_", rather than the intended "_destroy_".

**Mr S: **

My lord, you did say "dispose of", rather than "destroy". After the Moving Pictures industry collapsed, we owed money to an informal lender, that is to say, Chrysophrase the troll. The Guild Council came to an agreement with an interested third party, who had the means to export to Fourecks, to sell the whole stock of films, film rights, and picture boxes, which cleared our debt, and disposed of the problem, a long way away"

**SV: **

Who was the "interested third party", Silverfish?

**Mr S: **

Captain Jenkins of the Sailors' Guild. I remember. He said something like "Repairing and refitting my ship after that bastard Vimes nearly sank her cost me a packet, and I need to make a fast dollar quickly. I should clean up reselling this stuff in Fourecks now it's open for trade again."

_(Vimes, Carrot and Loudweather are seen to confer.)_

**SV: **

Talk to Jolson at the door, Carrot. Get her to clacks the Yard and put out an AO on Jenkins. I want that bugger in the brig.

**Dr Downey, Master of the Guild of Assassins (DD): **

My Lord, this has all been very entertaining so far, and without wishing to seem unsympathetic to the people of Fourecks, may I be permitted to ask what the wider significance is for us, on this continent? Surely you didn't call us here today just to get us to agree on what none here would dispute, that as we inflicted a supernatural plague on the nation of Fourecks, there is a consequent moral obligation, on the part of the Alchemists' Guild and the Sailors' Guild, to pay reparations?

**Mr S: **

But the Alchemists' Guild is not a rich one, my lord…

**HV,P: **

Really, Mr Silverfish? My understanding is that as of eleven this morning, your Guild was seven million dollars better off, as the result of providing inside information to "Doc" Pseudopolis of the Gamblers' Guild as to when your guildhouse was next likely to blow up. It did so as of exactly one minute past eleven on Wednesday morning, thus enabling Doctor Pseudopolis to clean up on several large spread bets, the proceeds of which he shared with you on a fifty-fifty basis. Now it is possible that I could introduce a windfall profits tax on that sum, of perhaps, ooh, eighty or ninety per cent. Or you could express gratitude for your good fortune by underwriting the costs of a little venture I am about to propose to you all. Now. Lord Downey. To answer your question. I believe these creatures that broke thtough into Fourecks offer little residual threat. My understanding is that they entered our plane of existence through the door marked "Assume Physical Reality" and, having done so, are therefore subject to the constraints that come with having a physical body. They must eat and drink, or they will die. Unfortunately for them, they entered our universe in the middle of one of the driest, most inhospitable, places the Disc can offer. After an initial success in destroying the settlement at Malice Springs, these Things ended up roaming a very hot, dry, semi-desert. And the point of an Outback is that it goes on for quite a long way? And it also hosts some exceptionally venomous native fauna and flora? Well, I don't think we need waste any more time on wondering if one can get to the sea and swim in our direction, then.

**ACW: **

We've got jellyfish and killer sharks too, m'lord. No worries.

**HV,P: **

Capital! However. I have disturbing news that the peace currently prevailing over Holy Wood, which, lest we forget, was the epicentre of a psychic disturbance on this continent, is about to be broken. And I really cannot allow a repetition of what happened last time.

_{GENERAL HUBBUB AND UPROAR)_

**ACR: **

What? Some daft bugger's making moving pictures again?

**HV,P: **

Fortunately, not. Something potentially worse is moving in on Holy Wood. The Golem Trust. (At this point there was a general movement and re-arranging of chairs that focused itself on the Postmaster General, Master of the Royal Bank, and Tax-Gatherer General(elect).)

**Moist von Lipwig, Postmaster General, Master of the Royal Bank, and Tax-Gatherer General(elect). (MvL): **

Why are you all looking at me? I'm only getting married to her, it's not as if I have any conceivable shred of influence over her whatsoever…

**HV,P: **

Perhaps not. But the Golem Trust looks after, as it sees it, the rights of golems everywhere, yes? Especially long-buried ones which might have been tied to the same spot for untold thousands of years? Perhaps Mr Tugelbend might care to step forward at this point and summarise the story of what happened in Holy Wood several years ago, as he was a key witness. In your own time, Lance-Constable.

_(At this point , Lance-Constable VictorTugelbend, ., related the story of his involvement in the situation, which is summarized in the attached file 2b, Moving Pictures., and is omitted here on the grounds of un-necessary repetition.)_

**VT: **

And the day after, the Patrician exiled… I'm sorry, suggested it would be a good idea if myself and miss Withel left town for several years to allow time for it all to blow over.

**HV,P: **

A truthful and accurate summation, Lance-Constable. Thank you. Now turning to you, miss Withel. It might be argued that you have broken the terms of your parole. I'm sorry, the terms of our voluntary agreement. You were requested not to return to Ankh-Morpork until your face had been forgotten. I have no worries concerning Mr Tugelbend, who has elected for low-key duties with the City Watch and put aside any dreams of fame and fortune that… Victor Marischino… . might once have entertained. I'm sure in his new job he will be a first-class and loyal servant of the city and I wish him well. But you. You have returned as part of a troupe of rather unique performers who are garnering what I believe are called "rave reviews". Your fame is spreading and it may not be too long before somebody makes the obvious link between yourself and a clacks performer called Dolores Del Syn. This is not, in any meaningful way, fulfilling the condition of your return, that your face should be forgotten in this city. Now I could exile you with or without your consent. I could bury you in the women's section of the Tanty until your face is forgotten. Or perhaps, very much older. I could pass you into the custody of the Fourecksian Embassy to send back to your new country at the earliest opportunity. Or I may have other uses for you. I shall reflect on this. Commander Vimes, kindly recall that rather statuesque policewoman guarding the doorway, and direct her to take miss del Syn into her personal custody again?

**Mr Boggis, Thieves' Guild. (Mr B): **

But… where do golems come into all this, again? You've lost me, sir.

**HV, P: **

(sighs, patiently) Let me put it as simply as I can. Last year, the redoubtable miss Dearheart of the Golem Trust went prospecting for golems, very nearly precipitating a war with the Dwarves in the process. She brought back more than anyone had bargained for, namely a whole race of golems which had been thought to have faded out of the world sixty thousand years ago. I am, of course, referring to the Umnian Golem, seven thousand of whom have reburied themselves just outside our fair city. Archchancellor, is Professor Hicks ready yet?

**The Emeritus Professor of Post-Mortem Communications(vivant), Dr John Hicks (JH): **

Just ready… NOW, my lord, if Hex makes the final twist…

**The Professor of Post-Mortem Communications(deceased), Dr Flead (DrF): **

What's happened? Why am I back HERE? This is the old squash court, isn't it? Who are these people? WHERE'S MANDY? I WAS WATCHING MANDY!

**JH: **

Just a few moments in service of the University and the City, if you please, professor.

**Dr F: **

(incoherent swearing)

**JH: **

Then we will return you?

**HV,P: **

Alternative places to return you to can be considered. A misdirected insorcism done in haste might well suffer from, shall we say, confusion of hue and tint? It would be a shame if you were returned to the Blue Cat Club, should the insorcism not make sufficient differentiation between blue and pink, nor indeed the precise tastes of the feline in question…

**Dr F: **

Oh, very well. Just make it quick!

**HV, P: **

Professor, I believe by long-established occult lore and tradition, one of the living may ask one of the dead, if summoned, three and only three questions, which the deceased party is required, indeed bound, to answer totally truthfully. Good, you agree. My first question: the place we know as Holy Wood is old, very very old. Was it Umnian in origin?

**Dr F: **

Yes, it was.

**HV, P: **

My second question:A disaster befell here which directly brought about the fall of the High Umnian civilization. It began in the place we know as the Chthinema?

**Dr F: **

Yes, it did. Entirely correct. That's two.

**HV,P: **

And the survivors of High Um, who rebuilt what we know of as the Middle Umnian civilization, at great expense and craft, made one very last Umnian Golem which was programmed, by means of its carven and psychic chem., to defend that portal and guard it forever against incursions from outside?

**Dr F: **

Yes, and that desirable little filly Adora Belle Dearheart is even as we speak traveling there, as fast as her delectable legs will carry her, to, as she sees it, liberate that last golem from servitude at the bottom of a half-flooded pit. She hasn't stopped to consider what it was put there to do, nor what will happen to the world if she frees it. To her, it's a golem in chains. And as that's your third question, what you choose to do about it is your problem. Now, SEND ME BACK, HICKS!

_(There was a commotion among the wizards.)_

**Enter DEATH , Gatekeeper of the Great Unknown, The Reaper, Keeper of the Omega. (D):PROFESSOR FLEAD? TIME TO DEPART, I THINK. YOU HAVE ANSWERED THREE QUESTIONS. THE RULES STATE THAT ****AFTERWARDS, YOU RETURN TO DEATH, AND MAY NOT BE SUMMONED AGAIN. NOR INSORCISED. **

**Dr F: **

(fading, rapidly) You bastards!

**ACR: **

Wait!

**D: **

YES? KEEP IT QUICK. I HAVE THREE FRIENDS COMING ROUND FOR A HAND OF CARDS.

**ACR: **

(after some reflection) Oh… THOSE three friends. No further questions. So it is the end of the world?

**D: **

ONLY POSSIBLY. THERE ARE MANY VARIABLES. NOW IF YOU WILL EXCUSE ME.

_(Respectful silence as the Grim Reaper departs with the soul of Professor Flead, exchanging nods with the Archchancellor and Lord Vetinari as he does so. Hicks is seen to punch the air in jubilation, but ceases when Ridcully and the Patrician look disapprovingly in his direction. He sits, sheepishly.)_

**HV,P: **

Now we are all aware of the gravity of the situation, shall we set about finding a solution? Contributions, gentlemen?

**DD: **

(clears throat). My Lord, the Dark Council periodically meets to assess the changing political and social landscape of the city, and to evaluate what level of… .err… interest we should take in certain people who arise to prominence, should the need or opportunity present itself. After she brought the Umnian Golems to the City, we performed an evaluation exercise on Miss Dearheart. Please, Postmaster, at this stage it is merely a theoretical evaluation, a Green Paper, if you will. No contract has yet been issued.

**HV,P: **

And?

**DD: **

Well, after due reflection, we considered that a woman who is habitually surrounded by huge unstoppable creatures, all of whom recognize a debt of thanks to her which would not be unakin to love, would be a most difficult prospect to inhume. Not impossible, but the degree of difficulty and personal risk involved means we would have to set the fee at one and a half million dollars. (General consternation). Any Assassin who stood a chance would first have to evolve a means of disabling or otherwise evading an unspecified number of Golems. We realized this in your case, Postmaster, where an arrow that was intended as a routine notification was intercepted in flight, by your golem servant. And the dog in question is… ?

**HV,P: **

Being safely and securely looked after, Lord Downey, you may be sure of that. Oh, and Postmaster…

**MvL: **

Yes, lord?

**HV,P: **

Remind me to speak to you sometime about the twenty thousand dollars a year you still receive in legacy from Lady Lavish's will, which, strictly speaking, should go to the person who keeps Mr Fusspot fed, in good health, and free from harm.

**MvP: **

(resigned) Yes, my Lord.

**HV,P: **

So. The prospect of inhuming miss Dearheart - should such an extreme step be necessary, and I am yet to be convinced it is - is both extremely expensive and accompanied by a vanishingly small chance of success. I'm relieved, as I find her a candid and refreshing person to speak to. Definitely not a Yes-person, which I value, and I hope she lives to fulfil that function for many years yet. But she needs to be stopped and hopefully persuaded of the inadvisability of her actions, does she not? Ideas, please?

**SV: **

When did they leave?

**Rufus Drumknott, Sc'y (RD): **

According to my notes, Sir Samuel, yesterday at ten in the morning.

**SV: **

So we need to be in pursuit now, to stand a chance of catching her.

**CI: **

Sir, I instructed Constable Swires to monitor what they're doing. Well, she was doing nothing illegal and I couldn't prevent her. But I thought it would be an idea to monitor her movements, just in case, after the last time. Swires sent a message back to say that they're having difficulty crossing the sands. Apparently the old road to Holy Wood was destroyed shortly after the downfall of the clacks, and rendered impassible by areas of hazard to heavy transport. Several large heavy golems are, apparently, currently digging each other out of a sand-trap.

**HV,P: **

Remind me to make a note about the terrible condition of that road, Drumknott.

**RD: **

Note made, sir. (_Memo dispatched re, need to renew traps and obstacles on the Holy Wood road_)

**HV,P: **

Are we all in favour of sending pursuit out to negociate with Miss Dearheart and convey the opinion of the City that she cease and desist? Capital.

**SV: **

Sir, she's got golems. What if they don't want, or are under orders, not to be negociated with?

**HV,P: **

An interesting point, Sir Samuel. Captain Ironfoundersson?

**Captain Carrot Ironfoundersson, City Watch (CI): **

It occurs to me that we should use other golems, sir.

**Hv,P: **

Ah yes. The irresistible force encounters the un-moveable object. I've often pondered that philosophical conundrum. A chance to find out! Most capital!

**CI: **

I suggest Constable Dorfl, sir. Other golems hold him in high esteem. He could be empowered to speak for the city.

**HV,P: **

And I'm inclined to add Mr Pump, who can be so briefed also. But just in case we need conclusive force. Mr von Lipwig, proceed to the Golem Ground and resurrect twelve Umnian Golems. Then await the arrival of Constable Dorfl, Mr Pump, and such others who are nominated by this meeting, and follow with all due speed.

**MvP: **

Me sir?

**HvP: **

You, sir. I hereby extend your parole directly eastward to Holy Wood and its environs. Mr Pump will of course be made aware. Go to it, Postmaster!

**SV: **

And who else, sir?

**HV,P: **

I'm sure both the Watch and the university need to be represented here on a mission of great importance. Lance Constable Tugelbend is your liaison with the university council, is he not, and is he not also a graduate wizard - my congratulations on your somewhat long-delayed graduation, by the way, Mr Tugelbend - and would represent both institutions admirably. As one who was there before, his experience would be invaluable. And Miss Withel, I think, as after successful completion of this mission, I may be of a mind to accept her co-operation now as mitigation of her crimes. Together with a Watchwoman to ensure her personal security. I suggest miss von Humperdinck, who has other useful talents.

**ACR: **

If I may suggest another Faculty member, m'lord. _(He signals. From an adjoining room, several BLEDLOWS emerge and march as a body to the Patrican. The lead Bledlow salutes, and steps aside, revealing a woebegone Wizzard.)_ The Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography (**Rincewind **- R), m'lord.

**R: **

(miserably) I'm dragged away from my lovely rocks and told to be quiet and wait till when I'm needed. Then I'm hauled in here under heavy escort. And I see the room is just heaving with Very Important People who are looking expectantly at me. Let me guess. Something's gone horribly wrong- again - and you need me to go somewhere extremely uncomfortable and confront something which is incredibly dangerous. Am I right?

**HV,P: **

Remind me again. You are the Egregious Professor of Cruel and Unusual Geography, are you not? Capital. As where I propose to send you is potentially both cruel and unusual. Egregiously so, in fact.

**R: **

I thought so. Let me call my Luggage and I'll be right with you.

**HV,P: **

How things do fit together when you start to ask the right questions! Just one final question before we cut the connection to Bugarup, if I may. Since trading links were re-established with Fourecks, it has interested me that you refer to us as Poms. Just out of interest?

**ACW: **

Your exports, m'lord. All come in boxes, bags and crates, with POM stamped on them. _Produce of Morporkia_. After a while, we just used _**"Pom**_" instead. And whad d'ya know, it spread to the people.

**Lord Rust: **

Ah yes, our guarantee of quality!

**SV: **

That guarantee… . of a particular sort of quality you only get from Ankh-Morpork.

**Lord Rust: **

Absolutely!

**ACW: **

The Bush Ranger got it in one there, m'lord!

_And so the meeting ended. _

* * *

Refer to the Monty Python "Bruces" sketch, where Bruce played by John Cleese recites the faculty rules of the University of Walamolloo.

Grace Speaker is alluded to in Making Money, where Vetinari remarks to Drumknott "A mind like that to be content with merely dispensing petfood? I think not. We'd better keep her under observation." The Wiki entry reads:

"She should be slightly worried that Vetinari knows where she lives and what she does for a living. Grace runs a pet-food shop on Pellicool Steps and in her spare time appears to have an inexhaustible passion for all kinds of general knowledge trivia. As one of only five people in Ankh-Morpork who could confidently and correctly answer the question "What is, or are, Pysdxes?" ( the others are Vetinari, Drumknott, "Puzzler" of the Times and the Curator of Ephebian Antiquities at the Royal Art Museum), Vetinari is concerned that somebody with a mind like that might not just be content to run a pet-food shop. Therefore she was placed under observation…"

I reasoned that her skills would make her an ideal recruit for the Specials.

In hospital or care home settings in Great Britain, the rubber sheet used to underpin the bedding for a patient with continence difficulties is called a Kylie…


End file.
